


War of Hearts

by nishiki



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Torture, Blood and Violence, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort/Angst, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Heavy Angst, Hurt Ivar, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Injured Ivar, Injury Recovery, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Older Man/Younger Man, Opposites Attract, Protective Older Brothers, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rescue Missions, Serious Injuries, Sigurd does not die, Torture, Violence, Visions, Visions in dreams, good brother Bjorn, good brother Hvitserk, good brother Sigurd, good brother Ubbe, rape is not between Heahmund/Ivar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:06:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 85,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27631148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishiki/pseuds/nishiki
Summary: As Aethelwulf breaks the deal Ragnar made with King Ecbert, Ivar finds himself imprisoned and at the mercy of a bishop dead-set on saving the soul of the young heathen. An ocean away, his brothers receive the news of their father's death and set out on a journey to find their youngest brother.
Relationships: Bjorn & Hvitserk & Ivar & Sigurd & Ubbe (Vikings), Bjorn & Hvitserk (Vikings), Bjorn & Ivar (Vikings), Bjorn & Sigurd (Vikings), Bjorn & Ubbe (Vikings), Floki & Ivar (Vikings), Heahmund/Ivar (Vikings), Hvitserk & Ivar (Vikings), Hvitserk & Sigurd (Vikings), Hvitserk & Ubbe (Vikings), Ivar & Ragnar Lothbrok, Ivar & Sigurd (Vikings), Ivar & Ubbe (Vikings), Sigurd & Ubbe (Vikings)
Comments: 64
Kudos: 212





	1. Prologue

His mother’s vision had not come true. He had not drowned during the journey to England but only thanks to his father’s intervention. His father, who had tied him to the mast of the ship so he wouldn’t get swept overboard by the waves that had been crashing into their ship without mercy. His father, who had dove into the sea to rescue his youngest son, the runt that he had once cast out into the woods to be torn to pieces by wolves. When he was a newborn, his father had been all too willing to allow the beasts of the wilderness to eat him alive. That truth was a constant companion for the young Viking ever since - a ghost walking beside him always. Now that he was a young man, however, his father had not allowed him to drown even though he would prove to be a burden on his journey into Wessex and towards the kingdom of King Ecbert.

His father … The same man who willingly gave himself away into the hands of a king who had once betrayed him to be given to another one who wanted to see him dead. His father, the enigma wrapped in a riddle. A man no one on this earth seemed able to understand or decipher. There was no shame in admitting that he had been afraid when they arrived at the castle, this strange place where he didn't understand the language and where the people were so different from their people. He hadn't even needed to play along with his father’s wicked game to sell his fear. 

“You are going home,” His father said from the darkness of that stone room the soldiers had put him in. It was cold inside, the air moist and clammy.

“I’m not going without you.” The answer came quickly and without hesitation. It was the answer expected of any good son. And he was a good son. Unlike his brothers who didn't deserve their father. He would rather die at his father’s side than running home with his tail between his legs to be ridiculed by his brothers for being a coward. His father was sitting across from him on a stone slab, almost hidden by the deep shadows inside the room. Every time he would move, Ivar would hear the jingling of his chains, reminding him of how his father was treated like nothing more than a wild, dangerous animal - how the people of this land saw even Ivar, the useless cripple, as nothing but a wild animal. A single narrow window allowed a beam of pale sunlight to filter in but his father avoided the light like the plague.

“They aren’t going to release me.” He was infuriatingly calm. His father, who had been hailed as a genius tactician, an undefeatable warrior, who never lost his temper, who was always in control. Here he sat now, looking at him out of clear blue eyes, accepting his fate - embracing his fate. “I have to die.”

He scoffed in response, crossing his arms in front of his chest like a petulant child, and gave the only answer that he could give at that moment. Ivar was loyal. He worshipped the ground his father walked on. “Then I’ll die too. I’m thinking of being burned alive.”

“Don't be stupid. I don't want you to die.” For a brief moment, Ivar was flooded with warmth at his father’s words. the cunning smile, which was so much like his own, however, betrayed his father’s words for what they really meant. Those weren’t the words of a loving father who couldn't stand the thought of his son being slaughtered like a pig. Those were the words of the same man who had taken a newborn baby into the woods and left it there. His father had a plan and that was why he had chosen Ivar to come with him. He was a tool for his father’s revenge, nothing more than that. “It is far more important that you stay alive.” His chains were rattling as his father slowly got up from where he was sitting with a groan. He was an old man now and never had this been more clear of Ivar than right at that moment in that cell. “People think that you are not a threat. But I know differently. Out of all of my sons, it was _you_ I wanted to bring here, and it is _you_ that I believe is the most important to the future of our people.”

He was manipulating him. Ivar could see it clear as day now. His father was a manipulator. He knew that. It wasn’t important to have spent as much time with him as Bjorn, Ubbe, or even Hvitserk. He could tell from the way he moved, from the way he spoke, from the way his father’s cold blue eyes were boring into his own. He could tell because Ivar too was a manipulator and because he knew that people thought that he was easy to manipulate. He was a poor cripple, after all. He thought of Margrethe and how she had praised him and said the things she thought he wanted to hear so he wouldn't kill her. He had proven her right - for now.

“I’m just about prepared to believe you.” He sneered before his father lunged forward and grabbed him by the collar of his tattered shirt.

“Shut up and listen, idiot” Ragnar hissed so close to his face that he could smell his breath, bearing his teeth like a wolf. “You have many gifts and anger is a gift.” As his finger jabbed hard into the side of his head, Ivar almost flinched away. He was so used to people trying to charm him in saying things he would like to believe about himself, that he almost couldn't stand his father saying these kinds of things to him now. For his father, Ivar knew this, could not possibly believe that Ivar was in any way special. “What is in here is a gift. You do not think like other men. You are unpredictable. And that will serve you well. Use your anger intelligently and I promise you my son that one day, the whole world will know and fear Ivar the Boneless.”

His father’s eyes had become softer now as he looked down on him, their faces mere centimeters apart. There was sincerity in those calculating eyes - at least he hoped there was. 

“I wish … I wish I wasn’t so angry all the time.” He confessed quietly to his father but Ragnar only chuckled in response and placed his hands on his shoulders. They were warm through the fabric of Ivar’s shirt.

“Then you would be nothing.” His father smiled. It was a cruel thing to say and it brought tears into his eyes that he refused to shed. 

“I might have been happy,” He replied, a hopeless smile of his own on his face. He had always known that happiness just wasn’t for him. People like Ubbe and Hvitserk and Sigurd could be happy and live a fulfilled life. Not people like Ivar and Ragnar, though. Not even Bjorn seemed able to find true happiness, driven by the desire to explore, spurred on by the fate the gods had decided for him. Restless - always. 

“Happiness _is_ nothing.” His father replied and for the first time, Ivar saw the exhaustion in his father’s eyes, the hopelessness he was carrying on his shoulders, the burden of knowing that his words were true. For once in his life, Ivar wished he would have known his father how he used to be before his ambitions had driven him farther and farther away from home. Bjorn had told stories of their father sometimes. How he used to play with him and his older sister, how he had been as a simple farmer with simple wishes - long before the crown on his head had weighed him down and made him suspicious of everyone in his life. He had been changed forever, Bjorn had told his younger brother, after the monk had been killed. Right now, Ivar wished he would have known this monk.

“I was only joking. Idiot.” He smacked the side of his father’s head much gentler than he would have smacked his brothers. They had similar minds, his father and he. He could tell by the deep sigh his father let out at his antics before he leaned his forehead against Ivar’s. He hadn't had much time to get to know his father, not much time to be in his presence, but just from this simple touch of their foreheads, he felt the love his father had for him regardless of the cruelty he was showing him. He wanted to believe that his father loved him, that he saw him as something more than a cripple, and was not just using him as a tool to inflict his revenge.

“Ecbert is handing me over to King Aelle, who will kill me.”

“If this Aelle is going to kill you, then I and all my brothers will seek him for revenge, and you know that.”

“Yes,” his father smirked. “Oh, you must seek revenge, but not on Aelle. On Ecbert.”

A tool. At last, he was a tool. His father’s words were true. He had wanted to bring Ivar out of all his sons. Ivar had been his first choice but not because the others wouldn't come with their father but because he was a cripple. He had planned to come here, with his crippled son because Ecbert was a man of honor, a wise king, and a man his father respected just the same as Ecbert respected Ragnar. He had known that Ecbert would not harm a hair on Ivar’s head, that he would not have Ragnar's crippled, defenseless, helpless son harmed in any way. A tool. His father had planned all that, knowing that Ivar would be given a safe return home because he was a cripple, because he was no threat. His other sons would have been in danger here at his side. And, if Ivar would die … Well, what life would he have had anyway? So, all Ivar could do now was nod his head in understanding. A tool, yes, but loved all the same - for what it was worth.

“Everyone will always underestimate you. You must make them pay for it.”

His father took his armring off as Ivar was still fighting back his tears. It wasn't fair that he would only get this short time with his father who had abandoned him so long ago. The armring glistened golden in the dim light of the room as a silent sob escaped Ivar’s throat without his permission. Ragnar put the ring into his hands, wrapping his big, calloused hands around Ivar’s for the first time. A goodbye.

“I will, father.” He promised just as they heard the guards coming back to the room. His father flashed him one last smile before he grabbed him by the neck and leaned in to whisper into his ear: “Be ruthless.”

Ivar knew that it was the last time he would see his father as Ragnar pressed a kiss into his hair. He only let go of his father’s hand as the guards came in and dragged him away, could see rage flash over his father’s face at the way they manhandled his son and then he was being dragged out of the room, down a corridor, and outside of the castle.

In the courtyard, a simple wooden cart waited for his transport and Prince Aethelwulf stood beside it, patting the cart as the guards approached and manhandled Ivar onto the back. It was a cold day, the clouds hung heavily in the sky and promised of rain. The son of Prince Aethelwulf, Alfred, stepped over to the cart - the kid who Ivar had played chess with during his stay at this strange place. Without a word, the prince gave him the black king of their shared game and flashed him a sympathetic smile. He had heard many stories about Aethelstan, the real father of this boy and if they were true, he could see a lot of this man in this boy already. A shame that he would die when he and his brothers would return.

Then Alfred and his mother left and the cart started moving, whisking Ivar away without a chance to have one last look at his father and yet knowing that he was watching him through the window of his cell. He felt his piercing gaze on him even from afar as the column left the castle grounds for good. 

**-End of Chapter 1-**


	2. Chapter 2

Thunder roared across the sky as the door of the cell fell shut. Thor was angry about a broken promise between kings. Ivar slammed into the stone ground hard and without any means to cushion his fall. His hands were in shackles, much like his father’s hands had been just hours ago. He heard the roaring laughter behind him, felt hands that were grabbing his tunic, and pulled him away from the floor again. Around him everything was dark, there was not much he could see, the world didn't make any sense. His head hurt, his vision was blurry. He could see the unfriendly glint of metal in a flash of lightning coming through a small window up high underneath the ceiling. A metal door creaked open. 

_A cage_ , a voice in the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like his father’s voice, provided. _They are putting you in a cage. Like a beast._ He struggled against the guards on instinct but without much success. The last thing he remembered was a grey sky above England, leaving King Ecbert’s castle to be sent back home. Before he knew it, he was inside the cage, the door locked - and then he was alone with only one thought on his mind: Aethelwulf had betrayed them and no one would ever come looking for him.

※※※※※※※

The day was overcast and cold when Bjorn, at last, returned to Kattegat with Hvitserk and the rest of his fleet. The winter was getting milder and the sea was not frozen any longer. Hvitserk’s return to his brothers was warm and joyous, as the three sons of Queen Aslaug and King Ragnar reunited at their old hunting cabin in the hills. Ubbe didn't like being in the town too much these days, not after his mother’s death and Lagertha’s ascend to the throne.

“It's good to have you back, brother.” Ubbe sighed sitting down at the fire with Sigurd and Hvitserk. Bjorn had headed home to Torvi and his children - as he should. His brother seemed bitter towards his family and that worried Ubbe greatly but who was he to tell his brother what to do? He quickly handed his brother Hvitserk something to drink after he came all the way up here. Here, where they were far away from the people of Kattegat. Just the three of them as it should be. Only Ivar was missing now. “Have you heard about Mother?”

“Yes,” Hvitserk said with a solemn nod, the joyful smile of their reunion gone from his face in an instant. His brother took a sip of his mead, trying to think of what he was going to say next. “Well, you and I, Ubbe, we jumped under the ice because of her. So, I don't quite agree that we should kill Lagertha because of it.”

He wasn’t surprised to hear that. Out of the four of them, Ivar had been the closest to their mother. Ubbe too had loved her dearly, but unlike his youngest brother, he had seen her flaws. “If Ivar would be here he would say we should.”

“Yes,” Hvitserk replied. “But Ivar’s crazy. You know that.”

Sigurd huffed a humorless little laugh at that. They had all come face to face with Ivar’s madness throughout their lives, all in various degrees, none more than Sigurd. Sigurd, who had used every opportunity to humiliate Ivar and tease him relentlessly. Sigurd, who had been jealous that their mother stopped paying attention to him and focused only on her baby boy. It was especially cruel since Sigurd was barely any older than Ivar. Sigurd had lived all his life not knowing a mother’s warmth because of Ivar - and even though that was hardly Ivar’s fault, Ubbe could understand the resentment Sigurd felt for their youngest brother. He knew what it was like. 

“Maybe we should wait.” Ubbe concluded at last. “Until Ivar comes back. See what he has to say about it. It's a decision we should make together. We were all Aslaug’s sons. And if we kill Lagertha we have to kill Bjorn” Hvitserk couldn't quite suppress his laughter at that. Killing Bjorn was unfathomable to all of them. Bjorn was their big brother, after all. The kind of big brother people told sagas about. A true hero. Ubbe had always looked up to him, worshipped the ground he was walking on. “and I don't want to do that.”

“Well, maybe you couldn't do it anyway.” Hvitserk challenged with a smirk. He seemed changed after his travels with their oldest brother but Ubbe had always liked a good challenge. It had been the first time that Hvitserk and he had gone their separate ways and even though it had hurt a little at first, now he was glad that Hvitserk had gone with Bjorn. They had lived their lives as one before that journey, even shared the same woman.

“Would you want to test me, brother?” He shot back with a grin of his own. Hvitserk was wise enough not to answer as he instead grabbed an apple from the table beside him and took a huge bite out of it. Some things just never changed. As long as the sea would keep churning, Hvitserk would shove food in his face at every given opportunity.

“It's strange though,” Sigurd suddenly chimed up. “That father and Ivar are not back yet.”

“Father is probably dead,” Ubbe muttered. “He didn't intend to come back, either way, Sigurd. Even if he’s still alive, maybe he finally got what he wanted, the settlement he always dreamed of having in England, far away from Kattegat, his children, and his responsibilities. A simple life.”

“You really think that?” Hvitserk asked between bites of his apple. “That he would abandon us again?”

“He did after Paris,” Ubbe shrugged. The memories of Paris were still heavy on his mind. Many had died when their camp had been overrun. Hvitserk and he could have died. The raiders had not spared women and children and they had only survived because that slave woman had whisked them away to protect them. Their father’s ambitions had nearly cost Hvitserk and him their lives that day because he had decided it would be a great idea to take children with him on this suicide mission. And then, after the catastrophe had left them all bruised and traumatized, he had left them. He had just vanished for years without a word, without a trace. “Why shouldn't he do it again?”

“And what about Ivar?” Hvitserk asked, pointing his apple at Sigurd. “Sigurd is right, you know, Ubbe? No matter if our father is alive or dead, Ivar should be back by now.”

As Ubbe looked at his brothers, he couldn't tell what was going on in their heads for the first time in his life. The flames of the fire between them cast shadows onto their faces that made them look like strangers for a moment. Was this hope in Sigurd’s eyes? Hope that their baby brother would never return home? Was this relief on Hvitserk's face? Relief that Ivar wasn't here right now to spew his poison? Was Ubbe the only one of them worried?

“He might be dead,” Sigurd said and Ubbe flashed him a glare. “He might never have made it to England in the first place. Mother had this vision about him, remember? She had a vision about Ivar drowning during a storm on the voyage to England. She told me about it. She warned Ivar about it. She warned him not to go with Father. Maybe they both died in that storm. Maybe they never made it to England. If they got hit by that storm...” Sigurd paused and Ubbe tried shaking the images out of his head that Sigurd’s words conjured up for him. He saw his baby brother, helpless in the face of a storm on the open sea, terrified out of his mind that his first-ever voyage could go so wrong. Their father would not have been able to protect him. “If he … If he got swept overboard … It was his first voyage on a ship on the open sea, after all. He would have been … afraid. He wouldn't have known what to do.”

“He can’t swim,” Hvitserk added quietly, his expression grim, all of a sudden. “Maybe he drowned.”

“Or maybe,” Ubbe cut him off sharply and rose to his feet. “He will arrive in the next couple of days and then, you two, he will bite your heads off for even thinking something like that.” He walked over to the door, not quite sure where to go or what to do next. He felt restless, all of a sudden.

“And if he doesn't?” Hvitserk’s question stopped him in his tracks. “What do we do then?”

Ubbe paused, turning Hvitserk’s question over and over in his head before he glared at him over his shoulder, opened the door, walked into the cool winter air, and slammed the door behind him.

※※※※※※※

“I know that you do speak my language.” The voice was low and deep as it startled Ivar out of his doze. Inside his cell, it was so cold that he couldn't stop his body from trembling. It didn't help that he couldn't move around to warm himself. The cage was too small for his body, his head was aching with a dull pain, he was hungry and couldn't even tell how much time might have passed. Faint light shone through the tiny window that was his only connection to the outside world. He couldn't tell if it was day or night, the cell he was in was pitch-black. He could hear thunder roar through the sky and lightning flashed through the window. For a moment, Ivar was sure that he had only imagined that voice but then it came again, soft like velvet but with badly concealed disgust. “I know you can understand me.”

Footsteps echoed on the stone walls as the man finally stepped out of the shadows and came close enough that Ivar could see him as lightning flashed again and bathed his cell for a brief moment in daylight. He was a tall, muscular man dressed in black armor. A wooden cross hung around his neck, his eyes were piercing right through him. He could see hatred flicker over his sharp features for just a second. As he stood in front of Ivar’s cage, his features horribly distorted by the flashing of lightning outside as the storm got more and more furious, he looked like something from a nightmare.

“Heathen.”

An amused chuckle escaped Ivar’s throat despite the pain he was in, despite the disorientation he suffered. No longer would he need to play the helpless cripple that his father had demanded him to play in front of Ecbert and his ilk. There was no need for that charade, even though his heart was beating out of his chest. It wasn’t fear that made his heart flutter but uncertainty. He was behind enemy lines, all alone and defenseless and, yes, a cripple. He had no idea where he was, he had no idea how much time had passed, he had no idea what Aethelwulf’s plan was. Did he want him to rot away in this cell? He might as well have killed him then. At least that would have been more humane than letting him rot.

Slowly, Ivar moved closer to the bars of his cage and pressed his face to the cold iron as much as he could. He had to look up to the man but he did so with a toothy grin and burning eyes. “Christian” He replied in a low hiss like a snake and a part of him suddenly knew why he was here, even before the stranger started talking again.

“I am here to save your soul,” The man said confidently. “I am here to make you see the errors of your ways, the sinful nature of your people, and to offer you salvation, a second chance with the one true God.”

Again, Ivar allowed a breathy chuckle to escape his dry lips. His throat was sore and his voice sounded hoarse even to his own ears but he couldn't hide the amusement from his tone as he asked: “Do you even know who I am?”

“You are Ivar.” Another bolt of lightning turned night into day. The man’s eyes flashed an unearthly blue. “Son of Ragnar Lothbrok. And many there are who fear your father and your kin.”

“But not you.”

“No. I fear no man. No matter how wicked.” The man paused as another lighting flashed through the sky. Thor was furious. Perhaps he was fighting a battle right now the way he swung his great hammer and caused all this turmoil. “But of you, I have not heard many tales yet. Your hands are still without blood. You can still be saved.” He then continued, bruising Ivar’s ego like putting a wooden club to it. Ivar kept the grin on his face, though, determined not to let it show that the man’s words were bothering him. They shouldn't bother him, of course. The sole reason why he came here with his father had been to make a name for himself, at last, to step out of the shadows of his big brothers and grow into his own, create his own saga, until the whole world would know his name.

“You are Ivar the cripple and it remains an enigma why your father has decided to bring you with him on his travels. Prince Aethelwulf did not have an answer for me and even if your father would have given him one, it would have surely been a lie. There must be a reason why he brought his ailing son on such a treacherous journey. Wrecks have been found along the coastline of Wessex, dead men, and women in the woods and on the beaches. The storm you have sailed through came from God the Almighty himself. It seems a miracle that both you and your father survived - but so much more that you, a helpless cripple, did not drown in the waves.” 

He growled like a dog at the man before him through his teeth. While this would have served to intimidate his brothers or the villagers, the man did not bat a lash. In his chest, Ivar’s heart was going rampant now. What mess had his father thrown him into? He had never been in this land and all he knew about it were the stories that people told him. He didn't know what to expect of those Christians and their ways. For the first time in his life, Ivar was completely out of his element. Behaving like a beast would not get him anywhere here and he had no one to rely on for help either. He was afraid. Yes. And yet, he could not show it as this would be his doom.

“Prince Aethelwulf wanted me to crucify you and put your body on display at the beaches where your kind landed when they first came to Wessex. I, however, told him that God would not have spared the life of a cripple during such a ravenous storm for no good reason. I told him that God did send you to Wessex for a reason, that _you_ would be the one person who would help us destroy the heathens once and for all. You, Ivar, will become a messenger of the Almighty. A son of Ragnar Lothbrok will wield the sword of the one true God against those who will not abandon their pagan beliefs.”

The dry laugh that escaped him seemed to anger the man in front of him but he had expected this kind of reaction. “You must be out of your mind,” Ivar whispered at last. “I will never abandon the Gods. Don't you hear that? The thunder? The storm? That is the mighty Thor and he is wielding his great hammer Mjolnir because he is furious that a son of Ragnar Lothbrok, a descendant of the great Odin himself is being held captive by Christians. The Gods are angry that your prince broke a promise. My father will be avenged and my brothers will come and find me. And when they do, you will wish you had never met Ivar the Boneless. The bodies you found in the woods, that was my doing. I was the one who slaughtered them. My hands are not without blood.”

A grin spread over the face of the man at this confession. He could see a flicker of something that Ivar could not quite put his finger on in his eyes. Curiosity, perhaps? Amusement? “I did not expect it to be easy,” The man said calmly. “You will abandon your Gods, Ivar. We have our methods to make people see reason.”

The man suddenly stepped away from Ivar and vanished into the shadows as if he was smoke or fog over a lake. A moment later he heard him knock against a door, followed by the creaking as the door swung open. Light burned his eyes as two men with torches walked into the cell. Before he knew what was going on, four more men had walked inside and opened his cage. Ivar flung himself at the men, tried desperately to find a way to fight them but only got knocked over the head with the hilt of a sword in the process. He wouldn't go down without a fight and both the man and the soldiers knew that. 

For a moment, the face of the strange man hovered over him like the moon, a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth, and then Ivar got dragged away and out of the room without explanation. He tried getting a sense of the place he was being held at as he was dragged into a dark, narrow corridor that was sparsely lit by torches along the walls, his feet dragging uselessly over rough stone. If he would only be able to get his hands on one of those torches! He wouldn't be able to kill them all but at least he could inflict damage on one or two of them!

Behind him, he could hear the priest or whatever he was, murmuring something that sounded like a prayer. This finally sparked a bout of anxiety in Ivar which only made him lash out and struggle even more with his captors. He was being dragged up a spiral staircase and then, suddenly, cold air hit his skin, sharp wind ripped at his tunic. He was outside and rain slammed down on him. If he would be able to break free then maybe he would be able to escape! He couldn't run but he was still quick! The night was so dark that he couldn't see where they were going or what his surroundings looked like. The storm was growing ever stronger now and then, another flash of lightning illuminated the place they were in. A courtyard, it seemed. Similar to what it looked like at Ecbert’s castle - only smaller and with no people running around. There was a well in the center of it. His heart sank as he realized that he was being dragged towards it.

“No!” He shouted before he could think twice about it, panic gripping him tight. “No! Let me go!” He wouldn't plead, he wouldn't cry, he wouldn't go down like a coward but fear held his heart in a tight grip. He was yanked up, wiggling as much as he could, cursing his legs for not being able to kick out, and then, he was dropped. His fall was short but the water was not high enough to absorb the fall completely. For a horrifying moment, he was back underneath the waves, tied to a pole of a destroyed ship, and this time his father wasn’t there to save him. He was drowning.

※※※※※※※

Kattegat was bathed in magenta as the sun was slowly rising over the Fjord. The days were short, the nights freezing cold and the sons of Ragnar were sitting together in the woods where they used to play as children. The last time they had been here, the four of them, their father had been here as well, sitting at the roots of the big tree, trying to convince at least one of them to follow him on his suicide mission to England just to take the only son with him who would be a burden on this trip. To Bjorn, it was still an enigma why his father had taken Ivar with him instead of going alone. Then again, so much of his father’s plans had always been an enigma to the young Viking warrior. Even in the bleakest of times, Ragnar had always had a plan.

He remembered the funeral in Paris. He had believed him to be dead. They all had. And yet his father had surprised them all when he jumped out of that coffin in the middle of Paris. And for what? For fame and glory? Was that really all there was to his father’s plans?

None of the four said a word as they sat around the campfire while the rest of the world was still waking up around them. The four brothers, however, had not slept. They had been shaken awake by a horrible storm and then a figure emerged from the dark clouds and the churning sea, dressed in a black cloak. A man with only one eye. Bjorn remembered jolting from his bed beside Torvi when it happened, staring at the figure only he could see as Odin was standing in his house, thunder crashing on the horizon, lightning flashing through the windows.

“Our father is dead,” Hvitserk muttered at last, his chin propped up against one of his knees as he hugged it to his chest. There was no telling if his brother was grieving Ragnar as Bjorn was grieving him. Hvitserk looked disheveled and half asleep. They had met here without talking to each other, drawn to this place where they had last been with their father, as if by a spell. In the bleakest of times, the sons of Ragnar would always find each other.

“But what about our brother?” Ubbe asked then and Bjorn briefly wondered if he was asking the Gods or them. 

“He’s dead,” Sigurd shrugged. Even if Sigurd had hated Ivar, Bjorn could tell that his younger brother was grieving their youngest and not so much the loss of a father he had barely known. His eyes betrayed Sigurd. Despite their differences, Ivar had still been Sigurd’s baby brother. Sigurd had still pulled him through Kattegat in a little cart. Sigurd had still slept at his brother’s side. He thought of the story Ubbe had told him weeks ago, about that slave girl they had all bedded. The trio had helped Ivar to be with her as well, in the end. Even Sigurd. Even Sigurd had wanted to help Ivar in this endeavor.

“We can’t know that,” Hvitserk replied quietly. His voice sounded hoarse as he did. Hvitserk was often the cruelest in his choice of words about Ivar, wherein Sigurd chose silence most of the time. Still, just thinking that Ivar might be dead, seemed to awaken a fury in Hvitserk that he himself had not known yet. “He might be okay.”

“He’s a cripple, Hvitserk,” Sigurd reminded his brother as if Hvitserk had not carried Ivar around when they were younger, as if Hvitserk had not sat with Ivar in cold nights when the pain in Ivar’s legs had gotten so bad that his younger brother had been crying helpless tears. Sometimes, Bjorn wondered, if it wouldn't have been better if their father had succeeded if it wouldn't have been better if Aslaug had not intervened. Ivar’s existence was one of pain. It would have been a mercy. “He is dead.” But Sigurd didn’t sound gleeful or satisfied. His voice was colored with pain and sadness for the brother he had lost, for the brother he would never be able to make peace with now.

“And what now?” Ubbe asked, his eyes directed at Bjorn. “You are the oldest, Bjorn. What are we going to do?”

“We have to avenge our father,” Bjorn said quietly into the early morning hours. “We don't have another choice. Even if he abandoned us … he was still Ragnar Lothbrok. A legend. A hero of our people. We can not let this slide. We will avenge him and take back what’s ours, the farmland that has been stolen from us. And we will go to England with the biggest army that those Christians have ever seen. They will curse the day they have heard the name Ragnar Lothbrok for the first time. And we will find out what happened to our brother. If he’s alive, we will bring him home - and if he is not … We will see that he will enter Valhalla and be reunited with our father.”

He could see it on Sigurd’s face that he didn't even seem their brother worthy of this great honor. He did not need him to say the words and yet Sigurd decided to say them anyway. “If Ivar has not died in battle, there is no spot on Odin’s table reserved for him. He was not much of a warrior.”

“Our brother has battled his own body his entire life.” Ubbe spat suddenly, venom in his voice. “He is a greater warrior than you will ever be, Sigurd, if you will not change your ways and find some respect for our brother in you. Jealousy is not a good trait to have.”

“And what would I be jealous of, Ubbe? Hm? Should I be jealous of him for being a cripple who can’t even pleasure a woman?”

Ubbe almost jumped at his brother for that comment to pummel him into the ground but Bjorn held up a hand to stop the fight before it could even truly begin. “Stop this nonsense,” He growled. “We have more important things to take care of than your petty rivalries. Our brother might be dead. Our father _is_ dead. We need to focus on gathering our troops and prepare for our voyage to Wessex soon. If Ivar is still alive, we need to go sooner rather than later if we want to rescue him.”

“What about Lagertha?” Hvitserk chimed up. “The people of Kattegat expect us to take revenge on her for killing our mother.”

“I am not going to pretend that I liked your mother. She was a snake, but she gave my father what he always yearned for. She gave him the sons he was promised by the gods and for that at least I can respect her.” Bjorn said. “But because your mother was too busy being with another man, you and Ubbe almost drowned in the ice, Hvitserk. And because of her drinking and her disregard for me and my mother, for Ragnar’s family that was not made by her, my daughter Siggy died. I have great hatred in my heart for that deceitful woman but the decision my mother made was foolish and I will not sit here and pretend it isn’t so. She killed her not for honor but for petty revenge because Aslaug took what was hers, _knowing_ that her sons would want revenge. If you must seek revenge after we avenged our father, I will not stop you. I will not fight on your side and I will not fight my brothers. I will not make the same mistake Rollo made over and over again. If you must take revenge, do so when we come back, my mother expects nothing less.”

His brothers looked at him with grim but determined faces, giving sharp nods to agree with his words at last. Bjorn was the first to rise from the forest floor. The air was cold and biting into his skin. A slight drizzle started hitting the leaves of the trees around them. Odin’s words echoed still inside his skull. _Your father is dead. Killed by serpents. Cold in the cold, iron earth, Ragnar lies._

Serpents, he thought to himself as he remembered the tale of King Aelle and his serpent pit that his father told to him so long ago. King Ecbert had told his father the story, told Ragnar about King Aelle’s promise to hunt him down for the death of his brother and the humiliation he had suffered. Had King Aelle finally gotten the revenge on his father that he had craved for so long? 

He watched a raven sitting on the branch of a tree staring back at him and muttered to himself: “How the little piggies will grunt when they hear how the old boar suffered...”

※※※※※※※

The water was reaching up to his hips as he stood, clinging desperately to the large stones that were forming the well. The moment his strength would give out, he would sit submerged in the water. He knew that it was only a matter of time until that happened. Rain was beating down on him relentlessly, hitting him like tiny stones, filling up the well more and more with each drop of icy water. It seemed that his Gods had forsaken him but Ivar knew better than to believe that. The Christians wanted him to believe that. They wanted him to feel alone and weak, to suffer, so that he might be converted to their false God in the end. They didn't know what they were in for. They didn't know how stubborn and resilient any true Viking was. And if he had to die for his Gods, then so be it. Odin would take him in his arms if that was his fate. 

The night seemed to be endless. No one came for him to take him out of the well while Ivar was fighting fatigue and pain, digging his fingers into the cracks between the stones to hold on for dear life until his fingers were bleeding. The storm subsided in the early morning hours. He watched the sky through the hole above him change colors and turn from black to a steely grey. He thought of Kattegat. At this time of day, Kattegat would glow in magentas and reds, roosters would crow, people would leave their houses and start their work. He would be sitting in the great hall with his brothers and mother. His mother had warned him to go on this voyage. She had warned him that he would drown. What if she had misinterpreted her vision? What if she had not seen him drown in the storm but in this well without glory, a footnote in the saga of Ragnar Lothbrok’s life?

No one would come to save him. That truth was like an icy dagger. Even if his brothers would learn of his fate, they would not come to rescue him. Too often had he been cruel to them. Too much bad blood was between them. 

“Father,” He muttered to himself, startled by his own voice. “Why did you trust them?” 

His father, who was so intelligent and cunning. He had thrown him to the wolves. Had that been his plan all along? A figure appeared over the rim of the well as Ivar glanced at the sky. It was a man dressed in a black cloak, leaning slightly forward to look down on him. His face was cast in shadows but Ivar could recognize him regardless.

“Odin” He muttered weakly. It was getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open. He was frozen to the core, his body a trembling mess. “Father, have you come to take me already? I have not done anything with my life yet. Give me the chance to become great before you take me…”

The God did not speak. He could hear the crow of two ravens in the distance and heard his father’s voice wafting through the air as if he was right next to him. 

_How the little piggies will grunt when they hear how the old boar suffered!_

“Ivar” Odin’s voice was vibrating in his skull. “Your father is dead. Killed by serpents. Cold in the cold, iron earth, Ragnar lies.” He looked up at Odin and the Alfather smiled. Ivar lost his fight against his drooping eyelids, his fingers slipped from the wet stone he was clinging to. He didn't feel it as he went under the water. A part of him embraced the darkness even. Sleep. Just sleep. What a wonderful idea. 

**-End of Chapter 2-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

“UBBE!” Sigurd awoke with a jolt, pain running through his body, down his spine, into his useless legs and his crippled feet. He gasped as cold sweat clung to his body like a second skin, throwing the furs back that were covering him to look down on his legs in a sudden panic. He found them strong and able. No broken bones, no deformed toes. Everything was as it should be and yet the images of his dream still clung to him, unwilling to let him go, unwilling to allow him some peace of mind. He had felt the pain as if he was there, sitting in that cell. He could hear the screams repeating over and over in his head. His throat was hoarse from screaming.

Suddenly, the door to his chamber burst open and revealed his brother Ubbe, standing there, panting as he looked at his younger brother in concern. “What's wrong?” Ubbe confronted him with wide eyes, an ax in his hand, and ready to murder whoever was in here with his brother. “What's wrong? You screamed for me. I thought you were being slaughtered!”

“N-No,” Sigurd stammered, confusion heavy on his mind as he dragged a hand through his golden curls. The feeling seemed unfamiliar to him for a moment. “No … I was not … I was having a dream...” He said then. Ubbe visibly deflated and lowered his weapon but there was something in his brother’s blue eyes that told Sigurd that Ubbe knew there was more about this than just having a bad dream. It had been a dream, though, hadn't it?

“Are you sure? Do you need anything? Should I call a healer?”

“No.” Sigurd shook his head. He was still shaken by what he had seen, what he had experienced. He still felt the phantom pain in his lower body. “No, I’m alright. It was just a bad dream. Go back to sleep. We need you well-rested, Brother.”

Ubbe hesitated for a moment before he nodded. “You too,” He said and slowly left Sigurd again with another worried look over his shoulder towards him. 

A part of him wished he wouldn't leave. There was a childish little voice in the back of Sigurd’s mind telling him that Ubbe, his strong, big brother, would be able to make everything okay again if he would just stay with him for a little while like it was when they were children and all slept in the same bed. He scoffed at himself for having those silly thoughts and pulled back his furs to cover his body as he laid down. He was a grown man, a skilled warrior, a true Viking. He did not need his big brother to guide him through whatever nightmare he just had had. There was nothing to be made okay by Ubbe’s presence. Everything was fine. 

He told himself that it was just the stress of the past couple of weeks that was now catching up to him. His mother’s death, Lagertha throwing them into a prison cell until she had been sure that they were no threat to her, the news of Ragnar’s demise, the uncertainty of what happened to Ivar. Regardless of what he said about Ivar or how he treated him, he still cared about that cripple. Ivar was still his little brother and if something would happen to him, he would have to go and take revenge for him. That was just how it was.

His chamber had never seemed so dark, the shadows never so threatening before. As he laid there, staring at the ceiling, he felt like there were eyes watching him, waiting for him to fall asleep so that they could jump him and tear him apart limb from limb. Some horrible creature was waiting for him to be vulnerable and unable to fight back. A part of him was afraid to close his eyes, a part of him was afraid to fall back asleep.

Embarrassed by those thoughts, Sigurd took a deep breath. He was a son of the great Ragnar Lothbrok and even though he had not held much love in his heart for his father in the end, he could still acknowledge that he was a great man. A true warrior, favored by the Gods. No son of Ragnar Lothbrok was supposed to behave like a scared little girl just because of a nightmare. He had always had vivid dreams, his mother’s gift spilling over to him, perhaps even his other brothers, but this one … Oh, this one had truly been something else...

He closed his eyes again, trying to fall back asleep but the images he had seen were still at the forefront of his mind, battling for his attention, begging him to focus on them again. Sigurd tried his best to ignore it but in the end, the images from his dream won over him and he could do nothing except allow them to seep back into his mind so that he would be able to decipher and understand them, perhaps. Certainly, they would lose their power over his mind if he would manage to properly understand them. 

So, he sunk back into the cold dark waters of his dreams and allowed the images to wash over him a new. And this time Sigurd realized that he had not been the person that was in pain in this dream, he was merely an onlooker, a witness. He was standing in the corner of a dark, stone cell. High walls amplified every little sound inside. Drops of water were running down the walls and forming puddles in corners. The air was freezing cold and wet. The heavy smell of urine and blood was weighing down on him like a heavy blanket. A man was lying on the cold, hard ground in the middle of the room, his ankles in heavy iron shackles. Twisted, deformed, crippled legs were sticking out from underneath his naked body and looked as if they didn't belong to the rest of him. He was covered in grime and blood as a steel-capped boot was kicking down on him like on a misbehaving dog.

As he snapped his eyes open again, he was startled to see the familiar chamber take shape around him. He was home. _Safe_. But he still felt the chill from that cell, still smelled the horrible stench that had been lingering in the air. He had never had a dream like this. It had been so vivid as if he was truly there.

 _Ivar_ , he thought. There was no doubt about the fact that the man in the cell had been his brother Ivar, beaten, naked, starving, and freezing. For the longest time, Sigurd lay in bed, staring at the wooden ceiling of his chamber, listening to the sounds of Kattegat around him. He could hear Hvitserk toss and turn in his sleep next door. It seemed a miracle that he hadn't woken up earlier unlike Ubbe. Then again, Hvitserk had always had the ability to sleep through storms if necessary. He would sleep through war if no one would wake him. Of the four of them, Ivar had always been the lightest sleeper. Every little sound could wake him. 

Ivar … his thoughts were drawn back to Ivar again and again. In his dream he- _No_ , Sigurd told himself. No dream. He knew that it had been a vision and not just a dream. His mother’s gift to him, as it seemed. It wasn’t new to him either. In the past, he had had moments before when he had thought to have been granted a glimpse into a future, a hunch of where to go or where to move during a battle so that he wouldn't get injured. This … a vision so vivid was new and terrifying and left him paralyzed in his own bed.

※※※※※※※

Ivar woke up with a jolt and pain shot straight through his body like lightning. Confused, he tried to make sense of his surroundings. It took him a while to realize that he was back in his cell. The last thing he remembered was being inside the well, seeing Odin. His father was dead. The truth hit him like a ton of bricks. _His father was dead._ So little time he had had with his father and now he would never get the chance to understand and learn from him. Of course, that had been Ragnar’s gameplan from the beginning but still, it was a shock to him regardless. Not so much knowing that he was dead came as a shock but knowing that Ivar was all alone in this strange land now. No one was going to help him. He needed to find a way out by himself.

Trembling, Ivar slowly managed to sit up against the wall. He had been stripped bare. The cold air coming through the small window was now hitting his naked body without mercy but it was still better than sitting here in his drenched clothes instead, he assumed. Pale light was coming through the window and cast the room in a dull grey, his ankles were shackled with heavy iron, attached to it was a chain that was fastened at the wall behind him. There was no way he would get out of those shackles without gnawing his feet off. A harsh, hacking cough was bursting through his body and forced him to lean forward until his forehead hit the stone floor. For a second, he didn't even care what he looked like in this position.

The sound of heavy footfalls outside of his cell was what brought him back to reality and made him maneuver his body into a sitting position against the wall. A moment later the heavy door swung open and in walked that same man that had spoken to him earlier. Now in the light of a new day, Ivar was able to see him a little clearer now. He was a handsome man, with a sharp jaw and high cheekbones. His blue eyes burned holes into Ivar’s being as he stepped closer. Behind him, two guards stepped into the room and closed the door.

“Convert,” The man said sharply and without so much of a hint of warmth in his voice. “Abandon your false Gods and earn repentance for your sins. Convert and accept that our Lord is the only God and you might be saved. Convert and you will be freed from your shackles and born again a free man - a pure man.”

Ivar spat on the floor between them. “You’ll have to try harder,” He muttered defiantly as he looked up at the man with a sharp grin. “A true Viking never breaks.”

The man remained rooted to the spot for a moment, a contemplating look on his face as he took in the way Ivar stared at him. Then, with a small smile tugging on his lips, he said: “We’ll see.”

He stepped back from Ivar just like that with no desire to do anything else to convince Ivar as it seemed. A part of him knew that he was enjoying seeing him like this. A heathen in chains, hurt, cold, hungry, and alone. He surely thought that his Gods had forsaken him and that he himself thought that they had forsaken him. But Ivar knew that this wasn’t true. The Gods were around him all the time, he knew that. He could feel them around them right now. This was just a test. Nothing more. Odin was testing him how he had always tested people throughout history. Odin knew that Ivar would find a way to get out of this situation alive. Odin knew that he would withstand and either die for the Gods or escape from this place and kill that priest that thought he could blind him.

At the door, the priest stopped again and turned once more to look at Ivar. He held his gaze without fear, his teeth bared at the man like a wolf. “Your Gods have forsaken you, Ivar. But Jesus Christ offers you a spot in Heaven at the side of our father when your time comes. Jesus Christ offers you love and forgiveness. He opens his arms for you. Soon you will realize this and you will renounce your false Gods.”

“I will never!” Ivar spat. “I am a descendant of Odin. He is at my side always. And you, Priest, will regret the day you heard the name Ivar the Boneless.”

The priest smiled again and then left his cell, left Ivar alone with the two guards that remained near the door. Ivar wasn’t stupid. He knew what was going to happen. They would torture him. They would beat and starve and humiliate him until he would finally give up and either die or give them what they wanted. 

When the first kick hit him against the side of his face, Ivar did his best not to wince. He was dragged into the center of the room after that, a barrage of kicks and punches soon to rain down on him mercilessly. Ubbe, he thought desperately. If only Ubbe were here to help him, to save him. And then it hit him that all his brothers would not move a finger to save him.

※※※※※※※

He felt sick, physically ill. Ever since he got out of bed, Sigurd felt faint and nauseous. Almost the entire day, he had spent with his brothers, taking care of the preparations for their voyage to England. Harald and his brother had arrived earlier during the last day and more ships and troops were still to arrive today. One more night of feasting and celebration before they would set out to England to avenge their father. Sigurd had been surprised when he realized how many warriors had followed their call immediately. Kattegat was bursting at its seams now from all the extra people walking the streets of the small town. 

Besides the surprise, he felt pride wash over him. His own feelings for his father were conflicted. A couple of weeks ago he had boasted about wanting to slay him if he would ever show his face again, had talked with his brothers about the fact that no one loved their father anymore, that the Gods had abandoned him. And now every capable warrior in Norway seemed to be here to follow them to England and avenge their father, their one true king.

“Is everything alright?” Ubbe pulled him out of his wandering thoughts as they sat together in the great hall. Absentmindedly, Sigurd had plucked the strings of his Oud. Ivar always made fun of him for playing music. He looked up and noticed that over the noise of the feast, his brothers had gone silent and were watching him like hawks. “You don’t look well.”

“Yes, everything is alright,” Sigurd muttered quickly, trying to brush off Ubbe’s concerns. In a world where their mother had been more interested in the contents of her goblet and sought validation with another man and confidence on the bottom of a wine barrel, Ubbe had often been the person to watch out for his younger siblings, sometimes taking care of them as a mother would. He remembered Ubbe feeding him when he was small because Ivar had been screaming all day long and their mother occupied with him. Just like Siggy, Sigurd could have died under her watch and she wouldn't have noticed it. He had found his cousin dead in the reeds at the side of the stream. With both her parents gone, there had been no one in Kattegat to realize that Siggy had gone missing, that Siggy had died. Bjorn had left her in Aslaug’s care and when he had told his mother about Siggy’s death, she had barely reacted to it - to the death of a little girl the same age her beloved Ivar was. It had struck him then that his mother wouldn't have cared if he had been in Siggy’s place. It had struck him then, that his mother didn't want him, that she didn't want any of them, that her love was reserved only for Ivar. 

In the end, Ubbe had been more of a father and a mother to him than his real parents ever were. 

“We can’t have you fall ill so shortly before our departure to Wessex,” Ubbe added with a smile that was meant to be encouraging. Not for the first time, Sigurd wondered if he should tell his brothers about his vision. He wasn’t scared that they wouldn't believe him. It was more the fear of what they might do if they _would_ believe him. And, there was still that dark little voice in the back of his mind telling him to ignore his little brother’s plight, telling him to let Ivar suffer, that he deserved nothing less.

He opened his mouth already to say something about his brother, about the vision but then - he didn't know what it was that compelled him to do it - he closed his mouth and shot Ubbe a smile. “Don't worry, Brother,” He said confidently. “I am fine. I cannot wait to go to England, that is all.”

He felt as if there was darkness falling over him like a cloak as he said those words, as he chose to keep quiet about Ivar’s situation. It was just a dream, he told himself. There was no reason to believe that what he had seen was actually happening to Ivar. His brother was dead. He was sure of that. 

※※※※※※※

Blood was dripping onto the stone floor as Ivar lay there motionless. Every breath he tried to take hurt as if daggers were being pushed into his lungs. His own breathing sounded labored to his ears. His left eye was swollen shut, his nose was broken, he was sure that he was missing a tooth somewhere in the back of his mouth.

He took great pride in the fact that he had not screamed once during the beatings that he had received so far. They wanted to break him - his body, if nothing else. They wanted to hear him scream and cry like most of their other victims. Those guards weren't here to save his souls. They relished in the experience because they hated him for no other reason than that he was a heathen in their eyes - that he was a cripple probably helped to further their hatred towards him. He could respect them, in a way. At least they were honest about their hatred for Ivar. Unlike that priest that was hiding behind prayers and the show that he was putting on for Ivar every time he walked into his cell. He said he wanted to save his soul, that he wanted Ivar to embrace the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ - but Ivar could tell that this man hated him just the same as the guards did. He was dirt under his fine leather boots. 

As he lay in the corner of the room, as far away from the humiliating signs of lacking sanitary installations, he was trembling like a leaf during a storm. He hadn't screamed or pleaded with those monsters to stop - even though in his mind he had called out for his brother Ubbe to save him like a child would call for their big brother in fear. He was not embarrassed to admit that to himself. After all, no one else would never know and the Gods wouldn't judge him for it. 

Ivar wasn’t surprised to hear the same heavy footsteps again that he knew by now to belong to the priest. They were heavy, yes, but not quite as heavy as those of the guards, his leather armor was lighter than theirs, his steps quicker. The door was opened and the man stepped inside without much pause. Ivar expected him to go on about his usual spiel again, to fall on his knees and start to pray over him, but he was surprised as he didn't. 

“I have sad news for you, Ivar.” The man stated without a greeting or any of his usual flowery language. He paused a couple of steps away from Ivar and looked down on him, his expression as calm as any other time, his face unreadable. “Your father is dead. King Aelle has fulfilled his promise to God and executed your father. Today is a glorious day in the world of our dear Lord. The world has been ridden from a great evil through the hands of King Aelle. For his good deed, he will forever be remembered as a hero of our beautiful England. I do not expect you to share my joy about the news. He was your father, after all, and I expect you to grief him. Just know that the world is free of Ragnar Lothbrok now - _you_ are free of him.”

“Why would I ever want to be free of my father?” He rasped.

“Was he not a monster?” The priest asked with a smirk. “Has he not dragged a defenseless cripple, barely old enough to be called a man, into this country, knowing full well that he was going to die here? Has he not thrown his own son to the wolves?”

“So … you agree that you are a wolf then, huh?” Ivar murmured and breathed out a tired chuckle. “You agree that you are a monster too then…”

“I am neither wolf nor monster, dear boy.” The priest smiled. “I am merely a humble servant of God the Almighty, doing what he wishes me to do - just as King Aelle did when he executed your father.”

“King Aelle will regret this,” Ivar whispered. “My brothers are already on their way … I can feel it. They know my father’s fate by now.”

“You don't seem surprised, I must admit.”

“Odin already came to me and told me,” Ivar chuckled again as he slowly tried to sit up straight against the wall. “My Gods work much quicker than yours, it appears. I expect him to have visited my brothers as well. They will come to this land and they will leave behind scorched earth in their wake. Your rivers will have the color of blood and the wailing of widows and orphans will forever sing through the night. Your churches will burn and your weak God will cower before Odin.”

“They can certainly try.” The priest smirked.

“When they come … and they _will_ come … They will nail you to your beloved cross, Priest.”

“You are mistaken, dear child.” If anything, the smile on the priest’s face only grew. “I am no ordinary priest. I am Heahmund, Bishop of Sherborne”

“The last bishop I met was fat and wore a dress…” Ivar grinned. “Certainly not wearing armor.”

“I am a holy warrior of God and whenever God or the King calls upon me, I lend them my sword.”

“Hm,” He hummed. “A sword for hire then … no better than a slave. Are you never following your own path? What a miserable existence that must be.”

“I follow God’s path.”

“And you forgo your own desires and wishes?”

“Of course.”

“See? My Gods would never ask that from me. My Gods don't want me to repress who I am. They want me to celebrate my true self, my desires and wishes, to use my true potential to find my true purpose in this life and bring honor to them this way before I go to Valhalla.” He scoffed and spit blood on the floor. “You Christians with all your praying and your repressed urges. I can smell the stick up your ass from over here, dear Bishop. What good does it do for you to not follow your instincts?”

“We are no animals,” The man scoffed. “You may lay with your pigs or with another man but regardless of what belief you have, it remains a sin and you will burn in hell for it.”

“Why would God be interested in who I lay with?” Ivar snickered. “What does it matter? My Gods don't care if I lay with a man or a woman, they know no shame - that was their gift to mankind. Shame is a useless emotion. You Christians act as if we don't have rules but we do. We live by a code of honor that you will never understand because it is easier to rely on the rules your church came up with to keep you in line. This way you don't have to think for yourself. This way you don't have to make your own decisions.”

“Do your Gods not speak to you? Do your Gods not tell you what to do?”

“Ah...” Ivar grinned. “They do. But there are no rules about what we can and cannot do from the Gods. Honor. That is the most important. Being a good son, a good brother, a good neighbor. Where I come from, we work and live together and if someone goes against the code of honor, they will be punished by all and embrace their punishment.”

“In due time you will realize that you have been tricked, dear Ivar.” Bishop Heahmund grinned amusedly. “I am going to leave you alone to think.”

“Wait,” Ivar breathed out. Odin’s words were still echoing through his mind. _Killed by serpents. Cold in the cold, iron earth, Ragnar lies._ “Tell me how my father died. Was it an honorable death?”

There was a cruel twist to Heahmund’s mouth as he turned to face him again. “He was thrown into a pit of snakes and slowly died from their venomous bites.”

Ivar remained silent as he watched the bishop retreat towards the door. A moment later, the same two guards stepped into his cell again. He wondered briefly what they would do to him this time. He had heard numerous gruesome tales about the torture that Christians in their mercy would inflict upon their fellow man. He would withstand all of it. The guards approached him without much concern that he might be dangerous. He would prove them wrong. This time, the bishop stayed at the door to watch, and just by that alone, Ivar felt a surge of anger rush through him. 

The moment the guard closest to him grabbed his hair and pulled him roughly towards the center of the room, Ivar’s hands shot up and grabbed him by the collar of his armor. Before the man knew what was happening to him, Ivar had pulled him down to his level and sunken his teeth into the flesh of his throat. The man screamed like a pig as he tried to fend off the attack, while the other guard tried to pull Ivar away from him by the shoulders but all it did was make Ivar clench his jaws harder around the flesh until it tore. As the other guard finally succeeded in ripping him off of the other man, Ivar took a large piece of flesh with him and the blood of the injured man shot out of his wound like a fountain, splattering Ivar’s face in an instant. He grinned at Heahmund, the flesh of the bleeding man between his teeth before he chewed and swallowed.

The other guard tried to help his friend, pressing useless fingers against the wound and thus putting his back towards the Viking. Ivar shot forward once more, grabbing the man’s head with strong hands before the bishop could scream out a warning. The man’s neck snapped easily under Ivar’s strength. Satisfied, Ivar slowly crawled back into his corner and laughed as the Bishop crossed himself and muttered a prayer, his blue eyes wide as he stared at Ivar as if he had seen the face of his devil for the first time. 

※※※※※※※

Seagulls were crowing in the early morning sky. The wind was sharp and cold as Sigurd stepped onto the ship. Behind him lay Kattegat, his home and place of birth, before him a journey into the unknown. He had barely slept since his first vision of Ivar in his cell. He didn't know if it had already happened, was happening right as he got onto the ship, or would happen in the future. Regardless of it, he felt a deep pit in his stomach ever since he had decided to keep his mouth shut about it to his brothers. 

Last night, his brother had come to him again in his dreams and now he was scared to close his eyes. The horrors he had been shown were unbearable and the guilt of not saying anything was eating him alive.

**-End of Chapter 3-**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: non-graphic rape in this chapter

As Heahmund arrived in the house of King Ecbert, he was greeted with the same warmth and kindness as every other time he had made the journey to speak to the king. The only difference was that he was not here to talk to King Ecbert this time - a man who had grown soft with age and could hardly be called a king anymore. He had come to see King Ecbert’s one true heir, Prince Aethelwulf, a man who did not have the same intellect or cunning mind as his father but who was willing to make the tough decisions and not cower in front of a heathen like his father. To know that King Ecbert had called a man like Ragnar Lothbrok his friend was a shock to Heahmund. It was blasphemy and yet the king did not seem willing to acknowledge the sin he was committing himself to just by calling this man a friend.

When he had first met the king, Heahmund had been a young man himself and he had been fascinated by the man’s sharp mind and his intellect. Back then, he had been certain to stand in front of a wise king who would lead their beloved England into a brighter future. And then he had made a deal with the heathen king Ragnar Lothbrok - the beginning of his downfall. Not to mention that everyone knew that King Ecbert was fornicating with the wife of his own son. 

Prince Aethelwulf might not be as clever as his father but he had made the right choice to keep the son of Ragnar in Heahmund’s care and not send him back home as the king had promised to the father of the boy. He might just be a cripple but Heamund had seen first hand that this didn't mean he was no danger to their world. Two weeks after it had happened, Heahmund was still jolting awake at night from the images of that heathen boy, covered in the blood of his guards, his face split into a wide grin, his blue eyes like sapphires in the pale light of his cell. His laughter still rang in Heahmund’s ears. At this moment, he had been certain that Ivar Ragnarsson was the devil incarnate. 

In his life, Heahmund had learned a great deal about how those who were generally disregarded as weak were all the more eager to prove that they were not. People like Ivar should never be underestimated - and the cripple had made sure that Heahmund would not make that mistake. Prince Aethelwulf had yet to learn that lesson. To him, Ivar was nothing more than a helpless cripple, barely worth remembering his name.

“How is our guest?” Prince Aethelwuld inquired as they sat alone in the prince’s chambers. “Prince Ivar?” 

It was not easy to ask for a private conversation with the prince without raising suspicion from his father or his wife. Princess Judith had already regarded him with curiosity and suspicion when he had arrived earlier and been greeted by her, her husband, and the king. Heahmund could barely hide his disgust for the situation here at court whenever he was near those three - even though Prince Aethelwulf was hardly guilty of what was going on right underneath his nose. What choice did he have anyway? His father was the king and if the king wanted to sleep with his wife then what was he supposed to do? Many people regarded Princess Judith as some form of holy martyr for the punishment she had endured right after giving birth to her youngest son but to Heahmund she remained a sinner who had seduced a monk. 

Heahmund allowed an undignified snort to escape his lips as the prince chose to use this title for the young heathen. Aethelwulf, on the other hand, held up a hand, and said: “I know what you think, your Grace.” He said placatingly. “And although I agree whole-heartedly, we should respect his standing regardless of what we might think about the cripple or his ilk. Ragnar was a king to his people and the cripple is his son, which makes him a prince.” 

“The … _prince_ … is alive and well, Sire.” Heahmund bit out through gritted teeth. Up until now, he had not come to a decision whether or not he would tell Prince Aethelwulf about what happened two weeks ago. He doubted that the prince would be interested in hearing about the demise of two of the guards and nothing similar had happened since either. The truth was, the heathen was too weak by now to inflict further damage on anyone. Even the devil could be tamed. Heahmund believed in that. 

“Good to hear,” Prince Aetelwulf replied with a smirk. “I expected nothing else, of course. I assume he is just as stubborn as his father and that getting him to convert to the one true faith won’t be easy.”

“He has shown a tendency for stubbornness already, yes. My men were forced to use some techniques to open his mind that have proven fruitful in the past.”

“Very good.” Aethelwulf nodded. “It is a sad truth that the only way to exorcise the devil is by force. In the end, however, Prince Ivar will be grateful to you, Bishop, that you have shown him your love and didn't give up on him. If he is anything like his father, you will have a long way ahead of you. Nevertheless, I am confident that you will be able to make him see the light. Even Ragnar Lothbrok got baptized, after all.”

It was left unsaid that Ragnar got baptized only to find a way into Paris. It had been a victory for Christianity - no matter how small. On that fateful day, at least a small part of Ragnar’s soul had been saved. 

“I am praying for his soul every night, Sire. It is my deepest desire to guide him into the embrace of our Lord.” He paused as he looked at Aethelwulf’s face. There was something wicked in his smile. “Pray tell, Sire, what do you have in mind for the young Prince if it turns out that he is immune to my teachings? I assume you want to use him against his own people if we are successful.”

“If we are not successful, your Grace, he will be crucified.”

As he later lay in his bed in the guest-chamber that had been prepared for him, however, Bishop Heahmund did not pray for the young heathen as he knelt in front of his bed and spoke to his God. Ivar, that peculiar young man, was on his mind without a doubt, but he couldn't care less about his salvation or his soul. That poor heathen had already sold his soul to the devil a long time ago. There were people who just couldn't be saved. He couldn't get Ivar’s eyes out of his head, though. This piercing stare, those sharp teeth, and his quick tongue. The boy was not nearly as stupid as Heahmund had thought originally. He had a quick mind and for that, he had his respect. 

It was the words of his prince that kept him awake. Thinking that the young heathen might suffer the same fate as Christ himself filled him with dread. Not for the young man, of course. It seemed a sacrilege to put Ivar through crucifixion like their Lord and Savior, like a perversion of that sacred act of selfless love of Christ. And still, regardless of what Aethelwulf said about his plans for the young man, Heahmund was not naive enough to believe that there was anything but death awaiting Prince Ivar. Oh, Aethelwulf would use him against his own people for sure, if he would convert to Christianity but the moment he would be of no use to the prince anymore, the young man would die regardless.

※※※※※※※

Sigurd didn't look good throughout their journey. There was no telling what was wrong with their brother and since Sigurd wouldn't say anything, that only served to further the worry that was gnawing at Ubbe’s insides like a hungry beast. Sigurd looked pale and feverish when they finally landed in England. Now was certainly not the time to get sick but if his brother _was_ getting sick, they needed to take care of the situation before it could get any worse. They couldn't risk anything on the battlefield, after all.

There was something Sigurd was not telling them. Despite the years that they had spent together, despite having grown up together, even sharing the same woman, Sigurd still seemed to think that he could hide something from his older brothers. As they landed at the shores of King Aelle’s kingdom of Northumbria and started to set up camp, Sigurd’s strange condition was raising eyebrows among the warriors and could no longer be hidden neither from his brothers nor from the other Northmen that had followed them across the ocean. 

“Aelle killed our father.” Night had fallen over the camp like a heavy blanket. Most of the warriors of their great army had retired to bed early after the exhausting journey across the sea. Bjorn’s words hung in the air like a curse.

The four remaining sons of Ragnar Lothbrok, however, sat around the campfire. The fire cast gloomy shadows over their faces and for a second, Ubbe thought that his brother Bjorn looked like an old man - almost like their father, even though Bjorn Ironside had more of his mother in him than there was left of Ragnar. Sometimes Ubbe found himself wondering if Bjorn was already tired of the constant fighting. His dreams laid elsewhere, across the Mediterranean Sea, perhaps, not here in battle with his brothers for a man that had left his family, his sons, behind without a word. Bjorn had it worse, he thought. Their father had abandoned him three times, even though it had been Bjorn who had decided to leave with his mother. Then again, what son would have stayed under these circumstances? Ragnar had left Bjorn when he had decided to allow Aslaug into his life and home. Ragnar had left Bjorn after Paris. And now Ragnar had left Bjorn one final time without a proper goodbye. And for what? Revenge? Surely, he had known that only death would wait for him in England and yet he came, knowing that his sons would have no other choice but take revenge.

It was only a matter of hours now until Aelle would learn of their arrival and then, the battle was soon to follow. 

“And if Aelle killed father,” Bjorn continued, his voice calm, his eyes on the dancing flames of the fire. “he probably knows what happened to Ivar as well. He might very well have killed Ivar in front of our father to add to his pain. Father killed King Aelle’s brother back in the day and sent him his corpse. I wouldn't put it past Aelle to have killed Ivar and make our father watch. However, if Ivar is still alive, chances are good that Aelle holds him captive, and then there is no telling what he might do to our brother.”

As Ubbe’s eyes fell on his brother Sigurd, he noticed that the fourth of Ragnar’s sons looked as if he was about to vomit at these words. His lips were a tight, white line, his fingers clasped around his mug so hard that his knuckles turned white as he took another sip of his mead. He looked like a man holding onto dear life how he sat there. Ubbe finally had enough of his brother’s secrets, though. Whatever his brother was keeping from him, he needed to spit it out before they would walk into a battle with uncertain consequences. They might be walking into their death, all of them.

“Spit it out, already” Ubbe groaned, his left index finger pointing accusingly at his brother as if Sigurd had cheated during a game with his brothers. Sigrud looked at him like a deer when it realized there was a hunter taking aim. And _this_ hunter, Sigurd knew, never missed. “You are keeping secrets, Sigurd. We are brothers. There should be no secrets between brothers. We shared the same woman, all three of us, and yet you do not tell us everything. Something is bothering you, I can tell. So, either you are saying it now or you will stay behind at camp. I am not going to risk your death or any of us dying because you go into battle while you are in no condition to fight, Sigurd.”

For a couple of seconds, Ubbe was certain that his brother would get up and leave their conversation, especially now as he noticed that both Hvitserk and Bjorn too were staring at Sigurd with unbridled curiosity, confusion, and concern. Sigurd’s face betrayed his emotions as he stared back at them. Ubbe could read it on his face how he wanted to leave the conversation or come up with some lie to placate his older brothers. His brows were drawn together, the corners of his mouth pulled down into a slight frown and his right hand found its way to his long, braided hair to toy with it in a way that betrayed his nervousness. Almost Ubbe expected Hvitserk to hit Sigurd over the head out of impatience and annoyance. Hvitserk sat with his upper body leaned slightly forward, his arms resting on his legs as he stared at Sigurd while Bjorn was actually leaning back a little, always the observer. Then, Sigurd said something that none of them would have expected him to say.

“Ivar is alive!” The words all but tumbled over Sigurd’s lips so quickly that it took Ubbe a second to fully grasp what he was saying. 

“What do you mean?” Hvitserk asked, amusement clinging to his voice and a twinkle in his blue eyes that was not too dissimilar to the way Ivar would sometimes look at his brothers. “How would you know?”

The way Sigurd dropped his shoulders and sighed so deeply that he seemed to deflate completely, told Ubbe that he had been dying to tell them and yet been afraid to. “I had a vision.”

If Sigurd wouldn't have had their attention before, he certainly had it now as the three other sons of Ragnar stared at him in even greater surprise. “A vision?” Bjorn was the first of them to regain his voice and composure. “What do you mean? Like your mother?”

“Possibly.” Sigurd shrugged. He looked miserable. “I had some in the past … but I never really took it that seriously. Now, however, everything is different. These visions don't let me sleep because every time I try to sleep, I see Ivar.”

“Tell us what you saw.” Bjorn implored, his face unreadable but Ubbe thought that he saw a hint of worry gleam in Bjorn’s blue eyes. Maybe it was just the fire playing tricks on him. “Where is he?”

“I don't know where he is exactly.” Sigurd shook his head as if he was disappointed in himself. He took another sip of his mead and allowed a frustrated groan to leave his throat. “All I can tell you is that he is being held captive. I don't know by whom or where or why. In my visions, he was in a dark cell and it … was so vivid as if I was there myself. It’s very cold and windy wherever he is. They keep him with rats, naked, hungry, and cold. They are torturing him and I don't know why.”

A stone settled into the pit of his stomach at those words. Torture? Why would they torture a cripple? For what gain? Ragnar was dead! They had nothing to gain from torturing their little brother and yet he believed Sigurd with all his heart. Why would his brother lie to them about something so gruesome, after all? 

“Torture?” Hvitserk repeated the word carefully as if it was foreign to his tongue and made a face as if he had smelled spoiled milk. “What are they doing to him?”

“I saw them beat him,” Sigurd muttered quietly, his eyes on his mug as if the golden liquid inside held all the answers he could possibly need. “He was already down on the ground but they kept kicking him. He was covered in his own blood from head to toe.” There was more that their brother wasn’t telling them. Sigurd had this haunted look in his eyes that told Ubbe that there was something else, something so horrible that he could not possibly say it out loud. Sigurd’s lip remained a thin line for a few seconds, his jaws clenched tightly as if he had to physically hold back the words that he didn't want to say. 

“We … After we took our revenge,” Sigurd then breathed out. “we need to find Ivar. No matter what. I don't know if these things have happened yet or are going to happen soon but regardless … if we don't make haste, our brother does not have much time left. And even if he survives until we find him, I think that Ivar will never be the same person again after this.”

※※※※※※※

Dread filled his veins as he returned to the abandoned monastery on the island of Lindisfarne. Dread for all the lost souls that seemed to haunt this place, snuffed out in a matter of mere minutes from a senseless attack driven only by greed and bloodlust. Dread for the prospect of seeing the prisoner that was haunting his nightmares. He had been gone for no more than three days, keeping Ivar in the care of his guards with strict orders to give him as little food and fresh water as possible. They didn't want Ivar to die of thirst or hunger but to feel thirsty and hungry enough to become closer to God. Ivar was surprisingly resistant to the physical torment his guards would put him through. They would beat him with their fists or whip him until his back would be bloody and still Ivar remained stubborn. He might scream his voice hoarse in the process but his resistance remained strong. 

Maybe, Heahmund thought, what could not be done with beatings and whippings, could be achieved with hunger and thirst. He had seen stronger men succumb to God’s will from hunger or thirst. In due time, Ivar would be thankful to see him. In due time, he would associate Heahmund with getting food and water and as soon as Heahmund would have become Ivar’s new God, it was just a matter of time until he would understand that his own Gods were nothing but fairy tales told to unruly children.

Ivar was in his care for a little over a fortnight now and he showed no signs of giving up anytime soon. He was stubborn, just as Aethelwulf had predicted from the beginning. In a way, Heahmund was almost a little impressed with his prisoner. He had not often come face to face with a man like Ivar, who was withstanding this kind of torture for so long without screaming, without crying, without yelling for his mother or father, without breaking. 

Then again, these heathens embraced their death. They were not scared of it. They were not scared of pain either. Even though Ivar’s skin was not yet marked by tattoos, he could tell that the deformities of his legs had given the man a great deal of pain throughout his life. He was tougher than most young men his age. 

As he finally walked down into the cellar, he kissed the cross around his neck and muttered the Lord’s prayer to himself to gather the strength he needed to go face to face with this demon once more. Reaching the cell, he was surprised to find the door ajar and quickened his steps accordingly. Even before he reached the door, he could hear deep groans echoing from the stone walls of the abandoned monastery. His blood ran cold by the salaciousness of the sound, ashamed that he knew these kinds of sounds much too well himself. As Heahmund finally opened the door, he had expected a lot of things, maybe even that the heathen had somehow managed to seduce the guards like the snake in the garden of Eden. 

He had not expected to find his prisoner lying on his stomach on the ground, his head pushed hard against the stone, surrounded by his guards. One of them was kneeling on the ground at Ivar’s head, his knees pressing into the shoulders of the cripple, pushing him down. Two other men were holding his arms, as a fourth guard held Ivar’s hips up, kneeling behind the young man, snapping his hips forward in a brutal rhythm. The young Viking didn't scream or cry, he grunted in fury, trashed on the ground like a fish, without much success. He was weak, starved, injured, and something in the way these soldiers behaved told Heahmund that this wasn't the first time this was happening to the prince. His deformed legs were useless on the ground, his hips in the iron grip of the man behind him. Heahmund felt his stomach churn at the sight.

“What in God’s name is going on in here?” Heahmund thundered, his voice reverberating from the stone walls, causing the four guards to startle and all but jump away from their prisoner on the ground. He curled his lips in disgust as he saw how the man who had done the deed quickly tried to stuff his prick back down his pants. Heahmund acted without thinking, without wasting a second, as he ripped his dagger from his belt. He rushed forward, gripped the man by his most sensitive body part, and swung his dagger down. The man screamed like a pig and stumbled back as Heahmund threw the severed piece of flesh at him, only to pass out from the shock and slam hard into the stone ground. As he looked at the other three men in the room they flinched away, white as sheets in the eye of Heahmund’s fury. He held no illusions about the fact that they would have taken turns on the young prince and that they had done so in the past while Heahmund had been away.

It took all his willpower to sheath his dagger and leave it there. “Out,” Heahmund breathed, through gritted teeth. “All of you. You will accompany your friend to the nearest cell and lock him in there. You will not help him. God will punish him in accordance with his sins. I will decide what to do with you later. Bring me a bucket of water, cloth, and something to eat to my chamber.”

Two of the men grabbed their injured friend under the arms and pulled him out of Ivar’s cell, the third practically ran out to escape Heahmund’s anger. The severed penis of the culprit remained laying in the dirt. Now that Heahmund was alone with Ivar the amount of damage done to his body hit him like a wave of cold water. Heahmund was a man who enjoyed the benefits of torture in his work while never actually laying a hand on another person, but this was something different. To go this far was a crime against God. The young Viking was covered in his own blood from head to toe, so dirty that he could barely find a trace of his pale skin.

Slowly, without a sound, Heahmund took off his cloak, kneeled down beside the young man, and put the cloak around him. Ivar flinched away from him like an injured and frightened animal, no longer the fierce Viking warrior he wanted to be but a scared child. He was young. Incredibly young and he hated Ragnar Lothbrok for bringing his son on this journey. 

With little effort, Heahmund lifted the young man up in his arms, surprised at how little he weighed, how emaciated he looked already after those fourteen days in captivity, and walked out of the cell with him. He would deliver him back to this cell soon. Maybe it was a mistake to take him to his own chamber, to show him kindness and mercy already. If it were any other prisoner, he would have shooed the guards out and locked the door again. Something about Ivar was different, though. He told himself that it was because he was so young, barely a man, or that it was because he was a cripple and had been helpless against the attacks. The image of Ivar’s face after he had killed two of his guards flashed in front of his eyes at the thought. _No_ , he reminded himself, Ivar might be a cripple but he was certainly not helpless. They had just somehow managed to overpower him.

His duty was to convert this young man and for that, he had to break him but there were lines that couldn't be crossed during this mission. Otherwise, he would be no different than these heathens were. This young man could still be saved, he was not as wicked as his father yet, despite what he had done to his guards. He was the lamb his father had dragged to the slaughter, the youngest child that had followed a gaggle of older siblings around like a duckling. 

With Ivar in his arms, Heahmund climbed the spiral staircase up into his chambers in the north tower of the abandoned abbey. He wondered if Ragnar would appreciate where his youngest offspring was held. Lindisfarne was no longer what it used to be. After the first raid of the Vikings so many years ago, the monastery had been repopulated by a new group of monks but they hadn't held out on the island for long. Most of them had died from disease out here. It was like a shadow or a curse was hanging over the abbey ever since Ragnar Lothbrok had first set foot onto the shores of the Holy Island. He knew, however, that King Aelle planned on repopulating the abbey once more soon. In the eyes of Prince Aethelwulf and Heahmund, bringing this young man to the place where it had all started for his father had been the right choice. This was the place where Ragnar Lothbrok had first made a mark on England and this would be the place where Ragnar Lothbrok’s youngest child would find salvation and rebirth in the name of the one true God.

One of his servants opened the door for him as he saw Heahmund approach the room. He was quick to walk inside, satisfied as he saw that his orders had already been fulfilled. He didn't put Ivar down on his bed but chose a wooden bench near the open window. He expected the young man to sneer at him or struggle but Ivar seemed barely conscious as he was set down like this. His eyelids were drooping dangerously, a fine sheen of sweat clung to his face. He seemed feverish but Heahmund found his skin deathly cold as he touched his forehead. 

Heahmund began his work without saying anything or paying any mind to what it looked like to outsiders. He took his cloak away from Ivar’s naked body and knelt down on the stone floor in front of the heathen. Ivar watched him with feverish eyes through narrow slits like a snake as he dunked a piece of cloth in the cold water from the well. He grabbed the young man’s right foot, noticed how much worse his right leg and foot seemed to be compared to the other one before he started dragging the cloth over his skin to wipe away dirt and grime.

“What a disgrace,” Ivar whispered through brittle lips at some point. His voice sounded rough as if he had screamed for hours but Ivar didn't seem the type to do that. “For a bishop of your holy church to kneel in front of a dirty pagan like me and wash his feet.”

“Our Lord Jesus Christ knelt in front of one of his disciples and washed his feet as well,” Heahmund said quietly. “It is not a humiliation, Prince. Jesus taught us that we are all the same and that we have to be subservient to everyone, to the beggar and the king, to the whore and the princess, to a fair maiden and an old hag. In God’s eyes, we are all equal and all loved. And now I am subservient to you, Ivar. You have experienced a great injustice today, and, I’m afraid, during my absence in general. Know only that I don't approve of what happened to you and that your tormentors will be punished accordingly.”

“But you will not set me free and allow me to go home,” Ivar said softly. Hope had already left his mind as it seemed. He very well knew that Heahmund would not let him go and he probably also knew that he would not leave England with his life. Yet, he did not beg for his freedom or his life. He did not bend to his will. Other men, lesser men, would have broken by now - at the very least after what had happened to Ivar.

“No,” Heahmund said. “You are still a prisoner and my mission has not yet been fulfilled.”

The young man took a deep breath but the sound was a horrible, rattling thing somewhere in the back of his throat. “I will never swear off my Gods,” Ivar replied in a breath. “Odin is with me. He is watching over me and holds his hand over me.”

“If that were true, Prince Ivar, he would not have allowed those men to rape you,” Heahmund said and he noticed the slight flinch following the last word. “If all those stories would be true, Odin would have struck down your attackers.” He dragged the washcloth over Ivar’s deformed legs, over the bumps and scars that spoke tales of broken bones and a life of pain and agony. The water came back bloody and dark. It would be easier to throw him in the well again to get him clean. 

“It is a test.” Ivar remained steadfast. “He is here right now, watching over me. I am his beloved child and he does not put anything on me that I can not handle.” As he looked at Ivar now, the young man had his eyes downcast. He could see the doubt in his blue eyes. His words were empty and devoid of true belief. He didn't really believe what he was saying. There was fear vibrating just beneath Ivar’s pale skin, every touch made him flinch away, yet he forced himself not to show his fear. He could feel the shame radiating from his frail body, the pain he was in, the sadness and grief and anger.

Later that night, after Ivar had been washed and fed, Heahmund brought him back to his cell. He placed him back down on the ground that was still covered in Ivar’s own blood, locked his shackles around his thin ankles, and walked out without another word. He didn't find sleep that night, though. Ivar’s eyes were haunting him as he was tossing and turning in his bed.

※※※※※※※

The war, it seemed, was won before it had even properly started. King Aelle was defeated in a matter of moments, scared half to death just by the sight of their great heathen army. His men were quickly defeated and he and his priest captured and pulled away from the battlefield. The man himself, the great king of Northumbria, was a weeping, scared, trembling coward of a man, and Bjorn was disgusted at the sight he offered. It was this man, this red-faced, fat king who had killed his father. A man not even worthy to take his father’s name in his mouth. 

“Where is our brother?” Ubbe growled in the face of the man. They had all been taught the language of this land growing up. Aethelstan had been Bjorn’s teacher and Bjorn and Ragnar had been the teachers of his younger siblings. His father had always known how important it would be for his sons to know the language of their enemy. 

They had Aelle on the ground right next to the place where their father had died. As they had opened up the pit, Bjorn had expected to see his father’s corpse in the pit, or at least his bones, but there had been nothing more than dead snakes and dried up leaves. His father was gone as if he had never existed and his murderer lay weeping on the ground next to Ragnar’s Lothbrok’s grave.

“Ivar.” He hissed the name. “Where is our brother?”

If he were Aelle, a man who was already scared beyond belief, he would certainly soil his pants now at the sight of Ubbe Ragnarsson who was called ‘the silent beast’ not without reason, even though his brother did not seem to know anything about that little nickname he had already earned for himself. The way he was bearing his teeth at the scared king, his face still covered in the blood of Aelle’s soldiers, made him look absolutely terrifying. Never had Bjorn been prouder of his little brother. When he had been a child himself, when Aslaug had ruined his family, before Ubbe had even been born, Bjorn had wanted to hate Ubbe for if it had not been for Ubbe’s existence, his family might have remained whole. And yet, when he had finally gotten to meet his younger brothers, there had been no room in Bjorn’s heart for hate. 

“I don't know anything about your brother!” Aelle exclaimed in a low whine. “I swear to God! I don't know where he is! I have never met your brother!”

“I don't believe you!” Ubbe hissed at the man. Right at that moment, Bjorn thought, his brother truly looked like his father reincarnated. He looked like his father had as a young man in the fray of battle. “Where is IVAR?” In a flash of anger, he watched how Ubbe rammed his dagger through the hand of their prisoner as he yelled their brother’s name into his face, spit flying everywhere. It was Hvitserk who pulled their brother away from Aelle who was screaming in pain from the attack.

“Listen,” Bjorn said calmly as he crouched down in front of the king on the ground. “You know that we will kill you either way, right? However, you decide now how painful this death will be, King Aelle. If you tell us where we find our little brother - even if he is dead - your death might be much less painful.”

“I don't know anything,” Aelle sobbed at last. “Ecbert called upon me to take your father prisoner! He told me he had sent his son back home on a ship! I know nothing more than that!”

“But, you see, our brother never arrived in Kattegat!” Sigurd spat. “And we know that he is held captive somewhere in this land. Your death will be slow and you will suffer for days before we finally allow you to die if you don't tell us where he is.”

Bjorn was surprised to see Sigurd like this, to hear words like this out of Sigurd’s mouth about their youngest brother but the way he had recalled his visions to them spoke volumes. Something inside Sigurd had changed drastically from whatever he had seen. 

“Just to make it clear,” Bjorn said. “You say King Ecbert sent our brother on a ship home. That is at least what he told you. Are you implying that Ecbert keeps him prisoner?”

“Ecbert, for whatever reason, loved Ragnar!” Aelle replied tearfully. Bjorn could hardly swallow down the bile in his throat at the sight. “I doubt that he would break his promise to this heathen king. His son, however, Aethelwulf, hated Ragnar.”

“Aethelwulf,” Bjorn hummed and looked at his brothers. They had a new target. Even Aelle could see that now. “Thank you, King Aelle.”

As Bjorn got up and walked a few steps away, the king called out for him once more. “Wait! I told you what you wanted to know! Have mercy, please!”

Without looking at the man, Bjorn told his brothers: “We make a blood eagle out of him. Father would have liked this and Ivar would too.”

**-End of Chapter 4-**


	5. Chapter 5

Agony. Pure agony. That was what his life was boiling down to. There was nothing else left for Ivar as he sat in the darkness of his cell, starved, half-frozen to death, parched, humiliated, injured. He had not seen Heahmund in what he assumed to be days now. If the changing of light through the small window was to be believed, it might have been three days now. Sometimes one of the guards would come into his cell and give him water but retreat quickly. Heahmund had told him that they would be punished but Ivar had no way of knowing - except for the one guy, of course. He assumed that he had bled out in the cell next to his. His dismembered cock had been eaten by the rats in Ivar’s cell by now and, by Odin’s beard, Ivar had been close to eating it himself. By now, he was tempted to catch a rat and tear into it with his teeth. He was beyond sanity at this point. His lips were so dry they cracked every time he moved his mouth, his throat felt like it was burning. His body was aflame from infection. It had been at least two days since he had gotten water at this point. 

The last time he had seen Heahmund, the Bishop had been clad in his armor, a sword at his hip, wearing a scowl on his face and telling him that he would leave for Wessex to support the troops of King Ecbert and his son in the battle against a great heathen army. His brothers were here. He could feel it in his bones. His brothers had set foot on English soil to avenge their father. There was no hope left inside of him, though, that they would find him here in time. And what if the Bishop would die in battle? What would become of him? Maybe he would be dead when his brothers would come, or the last bit of his mind would have been shattered as well. He could see shadows dancing across the walls now, voices whispering to him. It took him a while to realize that it were the rats talking to him, whispering to each other about him.

He was hungry. So fucking hungry. There was no shame in surviving, he knew that. No one would judge him for eating a rat at this point. But he had already been humiliated so much that he couldn't stand the thought. He still felt the burning touch of calloused hands all over his body, the searing hot pain of being forced on the ground and taken against his will. The last couple of times Heahmund had come to his cell, he had prayed over him. He had not argued with him about his God anymore, simply kneeled a couple of feet away on the ground, his hands raised slightly, and prayed over him, asking God to give Ivar direction and peace of mind. And, whenever that hadn't worked, he had called upon his torturers again. By now, he had no fingernails left that could be torn out of him, not a single rib that wasn’t bruised or broken. He could barely breathe. The thought of being found like this scared him beyond belief. 

His brothers would find him at one point. They would stumble into this cell and find him rotting, naked, and abused in this cell. A son of Ragnar should not find his end like this. What would become of him, if he died in this cell? He would go to Helheim, wouldn't he? Odin would not welcome him in his great hall. He would never see his brothers or his father again but forever remain in Hel. A fitting end for the crippled son of Ragnar Lothbrok. The son who he had wanted dead from the start. Oh, what an insignificant little thing he was. He had dreamed of greatness, spent his whole life defying expectations, being unpredictable, working to become strong and a skilled fighter. He had always needed to work harder, be better than any of his brothers and now here he was; Wasting away, half-dead, on the brink of insanity.

The rats were still talking. Their voices were driving him over the edge slowly but surely. If he would just manage to reach out without scaring them away, he would be able to catch one by the tail. He had no energy left inside of him to move, though. 

Ivar could feel it in his bones, the moment death settled over him like a blanket. He could see Odin standing by the door, dressed in his black cowl, the look of his one eye burning through him. In the distance, somewhere outside of his window, ravens were crowing from the sky. He could almost see them sitting on the branches of an old willow tree. 

He wasn’t ready yet. There was still so much left to do for him. So much he hadn't seen or done. A part of him wondered when he had given up the battle. He couldn't recall it. Had it been the moment he had been thrown into that well or when the guards first came to him at night? He remembered their laughter and mocking insults. Their words had almost burned hotter than the shame or the vile acts they performed on him. He managed to lift his hand, even if only barely so, in the direction of Odin, his father and as death took him, he embraced it like an old friend.

※※※※※※※

King Ecbert stared at them with unbridled fear in his pale eyes. Behind his throne, Princess Judith stood with her two sons. To Bjorn, seeing Alfred was startling. He could see Aethelstan in this boy’s features more clearly than anything else. To Bjorn’s feet knelt Prince Aethelwulf, humiliated in front of his father, his king, and his family. There was no need to threaten him with a blade. His defeat was unequivocal, glaring Aethelwulf and his ilk in the face like a wild beast. 

To give the prince credit, the fight against Aethelwulf had not nearly been as easy as the one against Aelle, but, in the end they had overrun his forces and captured the prince. As they had marched into Wessex and into the fortress that held King Ecbert’s castle, the people of Wessex had fled from them and hidden in their houses. An eerie silence had lain over the country as the sons of Ragnar dragged their prisoner into the castle, into his own home.

“We are not here to fight you,” Bjorn addressed the king calmly. He had learned, a long time ago, from his father that keeping one’s composure in the face of the enemy was sometimes the smarter move. Instilling fear in the enemy was always a viable option, however not always the best way of getting what you want. People who fear you tend to lie just to get you off their back. People who respect you will trust you to make a reasonable decision and are more likely to tell you the truth or give you the information you need. “Our father respected you, King Ecbert. Our father saw you as a kindred spirit. When he set out to England, he knew that he would find his end here. You delivered him to King Aelle who killed him but I harbor no illusions about the fact that my father wanted it this way. As far as I am concerned, my father has been avenged. There is no need to continue the fight and waste another life.”

“I am glad to hear that, Bjorn Ironside,” Ecbert said and he looked the part as well. If he had seen their army, Ecbert knew that he would lose. Undoubtedly, he had heard how Aelle had died from his son by now. “We should negotiate then. Your father was my friend, I loved him and it pained me to send him to his death but it was his wish. I am all the more glad now to get the chance to negotiate peace with his sons and start a new, fruitful area for both our people. Your father desired land to build a new home for his people and-”

“We are not here to negotiate.” Bjorn glared at Ubbe as his brother stepped forward until he was right next to Bjorn. Ubbe was the peacemaker of their family. He had always been that. Seeing him throw out this option so carelessly now was strange to Bjorn. “We are here because we want to know what happened to our brother Ivar.”

He noticed the look of deep and honest confusion taking a hold of Ecbert’s face. “I don't understand,” He answered Ubbe. “I sent your brother back home. I promised your father that I would ensure his safe return home and sent your brother Ivar on his way before I gave your father to King Aelle. My dear son was tasked with making sure that Prince Ivar would go home without harm being done to him - and I can assure you that no harm has been done to him while he remained at my house. He was my guest just like your father.”

“We played chess!” Alfred suddenly chimed up but was shushed by his mother who quickly put an arm around her youngest and pulled him close. It would be easy, Bjorn thought, to grab Alfred and hold him hostage. They would sing in no time if they would grab hold of their precious boy. All of them would. However, he didn't doubt Ecbert’s sincerity.

“Maybe his ship sunk” Judith offered quietly but Ecbert shook his head.

“No, no, the men I sent on the voyage with him returned home safely shortly after.” Then Ecbert’s eyes zeroed in on his son who was kneeling between Bjorn and his throne. The old man got up from his seat and pointed a shaking finger at his heir. “You!” He gasped. “You broke my promise to Ragnar, did you not? You did not send the boy home!”

“He is our enemy!” Aethelwulf spat, all pretenses thrown out the window immediately. “Of course, I would not send him home! You have grown weak, Father! Fraternizing with heathens like Ragnar Lothbrok! We had the one-time opportunity of having leverage over Ragnar and his ilk and you wanted to give it away!”

Aethelwulf hissed in pain as Bjorn twisted his fingers in his hair and pulled his head up so that Aethelwulf had no other choice but to look at him. Now the time of remaining level-headed and calm was over. “Where is my brother?” He said slowly, a growl tearing at his vocal cords as he did. “Where is Ivar?”

“Lindisfarne!”

The word rang through the great hall like a curse. Almost Bjorn started laughing as it sunk in. _Lindisfarne_. The Holy Island. Of course. 

“Lindisfarne,” He repeated quietly and released Aethelwulf from his grasp. He turned his attention back at Ecbert who sat on his throne with a mask of shock at the revelations. “If my brother has been harmed in any way, we will return. Maybe not right away, King Ecbert, but someday we will return. Just like my father, I intend to hold my promises. However, I also told you that we don't want to have war with you - so you better pray to your God that my brother is unharmed.”

“He is,” Aethelwulf gasped. “unharmed. I ordered Bishop Heahmund of Sherborne to be his shepherd and take care of him. He has been treated like a king!”

A lie. The brothers knew that, of course, thanks to the visions Sigurd had shared with them. Bjorn didn't say anything. His face twisted into a cruel smile. A peace offer built on lies. He thought about what his father would do now. Would he behead this man for his bold lies in front of his family? No. His father would act as if he believed him and would leave him unharmed just to return with even greater forces later. 

“I am glad to hear this.” Bjorn smiled at King Ecbert. “We will retreat into our camp, King Ecbert. In favor of our new friendship, I trust that we don’t have to expect a surprise attack from your troops. Otherwise, we would be forced to fight back and kill each and every one of you - including the children - in the same fashion as we killed Aelle.”

“You can trust me, Bjorn Ironside,” Ecbert said as he rose to full height and slowly stepped down from the platform his throne was placed on. The intention was clear: he wanted to meet Bjorn as an equal, at the same level, not standing above him and looking down on him, not as his enemy. He seemed honest - unlike his son. It was Aethelwulf they needed to be wary of but he was not yet the king and had to follow his father’s orders. For a brief moment, Bjorn’s eyes traveled back to Alfred and he thought about taking him hostage until they got Ivar back. Judith pulled her son closer as if she already knew what he thought. Bjorn, however, nodded and took a step back. 

“In that case,” He said. “I am glad to call you my friend, Ecbert of Wessex. Otherwise, I would have to take your grandson hostage to ensure that you are not betraying my trust. You can expect our departure from this island as soon as we have our dear brother back.” He knew that his brothers were not happy with his decision of refraining from taking Alfred hostage, yet they did not go against his decision in front of their enemy. They were all equals, of course, yet Bjorn was the oldest and the one with the most experience. His brothers trusted his judgment but Bjorn held no illusions about the fact that this would be very different if Ivar would be here with them. 

The journey to Lindisfarne with Hvitserk and a couple of their men was a long and grueling one. Bjorn was sure that by now news of the defeat of Prince Aethelwulf would have reached that bishop that was apparently in charge of Ivar and there was no telling what the man would do to his brother now. He might kill Ivar. Bjorn could feel how the sand of time was running through his fingers as they were galloping over the crashing waves of the shores of England. They had left Ubbe and Sigurd behind at the camp with Floki and the rest of their troops just in case Ecbert would break his promise and send soldiers after all. 

Of course, Floki had not been a fan of the idea of staying behind. He wanted to be there with them when they would find Ivar but, all things considered, Floki was of better use at camp in an emergency. Despite the fact that the winds were on their side, they still took half a day to reach the island. 

Bjorn had never been at Lindisfarne before and as he first cast eyes on the monastery, he felt a sense of nostalgia. This was the place where everything started and not seldom had he tried to imagine what life would have been like for him if his father had never gone to England in the first place. Maybe they would have remained simply farmers - but then Bjorn would have never gone to discover new places his father had only dreamed of seeing. He had seen the Mediterranean sea and he was intent on going even further than what he and Hvitserk had so far discovered. He would make his mark on the world and that was only thanks to his father who had dared to dream to go further and defy what had been possible for their people. All of that was only thanks to this place where his father first landed completely by chance.

Landing on the shores of Lindisfarne held a weight that Bjorn couldn't quite put into words, yet there was no time to reminisce about it for too long. Not now with his brother’s life on the line. It was a short way from the shores of Lindisfarne up the hill to where the monastery stood that his father had attacked so many years ago. The horror of those days still seemed to linger in the air like ghosts as they approached, a small group of Vikings, just like it had been back then. 

“I don't see any guards,” Hvitserk muttered as they walked through an open gateway into the courtyard. Their short track up the hill from the shores had been uneventful, to say the least. Certainly, Bjorn had expected the soldiers that were stationed at Lindisfarne with the bishop and Ivar to await them at the beach with their weapons drawn but so far the island was eerily silent. Standing in the courtyard, he could almost hear the ghosts of screams lingering in the air. It was easy to imagine Aethelstan’s terror when he had first laid eyes on Ragnar Lothbrok and seen the carnage he and his man had left behind, his home stripped off the religious artifacts that they were keeping safe at the monastery. 

The place seemed smaller than he had imagined it to be from the stories that his father had told in the past and yet it was big enough to host at least thirty people plus servants to take care of some of the chores. Aethelstan had told him how they had done everything themselves back in the day but Bjorn could hardly imagine that the bishop or his soldiers were taking care of the daily chores themselves now. 

“They are probably inside,” Bjorn replied silently as if he feared that someone might hear him if he would raise his voice. “Or they escaped this place when they heard about the defeat of their prince. Regardless, be careful as you look around. The abbey isn’t big but I think we should spread out to cover more ground and hopefully find Ivar quickly. I don't like how quiet it is.”

“Do you think this bishop-person has killed Ivar by now?”

“Let's hope for the best.” Bjorn squeezed Hvitserk’s shoulder. He was Ivar’s big brother but he knew that there was no comparing his relationship to Ivar with the one Hvitserk and Ivar shared. The four sons of Aslaug were much closer than Bjorn was with any of them. He had never had a close bond with Ivar either. After all, he had been a grown man with a child of his own when Ivar had been born and Aslaug had never allowed him much time with his youngest brother, to begin with. He could see the worry in Hvitserk’s eyes now, fear of losing a brother. “You take the west wing of the building, I take the east. Take three men with you, I take the other three. We meet again here when we are done searching. If you find Ivar, don't hesitate or call for me or anything, just bring him to the ship.”

Hvitserk nodded, then he motioned for his men to follow him into the building. Bjorn looked after him for a moment. His brother was a grown man and capable of handling himself in this situation, yet, it left him feeling uneasy watching his younger brother walk into enemy territory like this. At last, Bjorn turned and walked towards the door that was leading into the east wing of the building. He walked past a well in the middle of the courtyard and over to a heavy wooden door in the shadow of a tower watching down on them. Of course, the door was locked from the other side but it didn't take much for the four Vikings to barge through anyway. The moment they managed to break through the wood, however, all hell broke loose. 

A group of armed guards was suddenly pouring through the now open gateway, all but pushing Bjorn and his men back in a frenzy of limbs and steel hitting steel. It happened so quickly, that Bjorn was almost overwhelmed by the sheer force of the men that had been waiting for them behind that door. It was only a small group of guards, no more than ten men but they had the moment of surprise on their side. Luckily for Bjorn, however, his brother had not yet gotten very far and was quickly back at his side with his own group of warriors. 

The soldiers were no match for the group of Vikings and they knew it well. Within minutes, they had disposed of them with just minor injuries on their side. 

“Do you think that was all?” 

“I don't know;” Bjorn replied out of breath as he tightened the grip around his ax. ”We have to be careful. Aethelwulf said there was a bishop here. The last bishop I saw was this fat pig that fell with Aelle. I doubt Bishop Heahmund will be much of a threat but maybe there are more soldiers here, protecting this bishop. If he is anything like the other one, he will need protection.”

Bjorn was the first of them to walk into the building now that the path was free again. It was dark inside the ancient stone building and Bjorn had a hard time imagining Aethelstan living at this place, walking these halls. It was ice cold and looked more like a prison than a house for priests. Aethelstan, on the other hand, had always been full of warmth and love.

“If that's what their houses look like, I will never understand those Christian priests,” Hvitserk commented behind him. “It's so drab and dark. Hopeless.”

“I agree.” They crept down a narrow corridor while his warriors were sneaking looks into the rooms they passed by. As they came to a spiral staircase that was leading up into the tower and down into the cellar, the brothers paused for a second before they nodded at each other and walked down the stone steps. It felt almost as if they were walking down into Helheim. The sweet smell of decaying flesh hung forebodingly in the air and it only got stronger and stronger the deeper they encroached. Not too long after they had started their descent, they were in another long, narrow corridor, the torches on the walls the only source of light down here. The smell of death was now unbearable and Bjorn knew, deep down, that they were too late. It was their brother’s rotting flesh that they were smelling. 

Rats were scurrying away in fear as the group of Vikings approached. Before them lay a row of three cells all next to each other, hidden away behind heavy wooden doors but nonetheless identifiable as cells by the massive locks on the doors. Hvitserk rushed to the first door and pulled a steel plate away from a small window in the door that allowed a look inside.

“By Thor’s beard…” He groaned and closed the lid again to hold his nose. “And they call us primitive! At least we don't let our dead rot out in the open like this!”

It wasn't Ivar. Judging by the way Hvitserk acted it couldn't be their brother. They slowly moved on and paused only as they found the next door slightly ajar. There was no light coming out of the room and Bjorn felt the hairs on his arms rise. He knew that it was a trap, he knew something was about to happen but there was no other choice. His little brother was behind this door and probably a bunch of other guards as well. He motioned his Hvitserk to stand on one side of the door, bracing himself before he pushed the door open and- barely escaped the swing of a sword that was aimed to take off his arm.

With a mighty roar, a man jolted out of the cell and started attacking like a berserker, a wild beast with flashing teeth and eyes of steel. He was injured, though. Bjorn could see blood on his face and rips in his black leather armor, a wooden cross dangling around his neck. He had seen him before! Fighting like a wolf against their army when they attacked Wessex! Bjorn had no time to get over that surprise as he barely dodged another attack of the warrior. He limped, Bjorn briefly noticed and Hvitserk had noticed it too as he aimed his dagger at the already injured leg and rammed it into the man’s flesh with skilled precision. The man did not go down right away. He _did_ go down, though, as Bjorn managed to get a good swing with the blunt side of his ax at the man’s temple, knocking him unconscious. As Hvitserk wanted to deliver the deadly blow, Bjorn lifted a hand. 

“No,” He said and, turning to the rest of their group: “Tie him up and bring him to the ship. We are going to take him with us. If anything, he will make a decent hostage - if this is that bishop they had been talking about, at least.” He was certainly no ordinary warrior. Even if he was not the bishop, he might still be useful. He watched his men oblige and take care of the man as Bjorn sheathed his weapons again. Getting the men out of the way also had the desired effect of being alone with Hvitserk, the moment they would come across Ivar. They didn't know what state he was in, after all. They didn't know what state _they_ would be in after finding him. Dignity. That was all he wanted right now for his brother. 

Bjorn took another deep breath as he heard the other men walk up the stairs with their hostage and nodded at Hvitserk again before he grabbed a torch from the wall next to the door. As he stepped into the cell, however, he really wished he wouldn't be able to see. The stench was overwhelming. Rotting flesh and excrements, blood and urine, sweat, and something entirely different lingering in the air like fog. Only a small window allowed the pale light of the moon to shine into the cell, otherwise, it was pitch-black. Rats were quickly scurrying into a hole in the wall as the brothers entered and before Bjorn could even begin to understand what he saw, Hvitserk was already running to the figure opposite the door. 

“IVAR!” Hvitserk called out and for a second, Bjorn wondered how Hvitserk even knew it was their little brother. That creature on the ground looked nothing like Ivar. He was nothing more than a broken lump of flesh and bones lying motionless on the ground, his deformed ankles locked in iron shackles. “Bjorn! Help me!”

His brother’s call for help was what got him out of his stupor as he quickly rushed over to him. For a moment, he hovered uselessly, unable and unwilling to get it in his head that this poor creature was his brother. “The key,” He muttered. “Stay here … I’m going to find the key.” He rushed out of the room without a second glance at Ivar or Hvitserk, stopping as he reached the stairs and took a deep breath before he moved onwards. The keys had to be somewhere close to the cells and even though he couldn't stand the thought of going back into that cell, he knew that he also couldn't leave Hvitserk alone for too long with Ivar. 

Finding the keys didn't take long and he thanked the Gods for it as he found a set of keys hanging from a rusty hook near the door that was leading into a smaller room with a wooden table and a bunch of chairs. Probably a room where the guards had sat around during their watch. He grabbed the keys and all but flew down the stairs again, rushing back towards the cell and his brothers. 

“Is he alive?” He asked as he kneeled down at Ivar’s feet and unlocked his shackles. His skin was cold as ice, as Bjorn’s fingers brushed his ankles in the process, the flesh raw from the iron rubbing against it brutally for weeks. Ivar was naked, covered in blood and dirt. The true extent of his injuries, hidden behind a veil of grime. 

“Barely,” Hvitserk whispered. He held his brother’s head pressed against his shoulder. “He is burning up - probably an infection. He’s barely breathing.”

Bjorn didn't think as he took off his cowl and helped Hvitserk to cover their brother with it, then he gingerly extracted Ivar from Hvitserk’s arms and lifted him up in his own arms. There seemed nothing left of him now. Ivar was but a ragdoll in Bjorn’s arms, hanging limb from Bjorn’s arms, his feet dangling unnaturally as he quickly carried him out of the cell. His brother had never been heavy - not to him. His upper body was strong and muscular while his legs seemed to belong to someone else but right now nothing was left of that strength Ivar used to possess. He could feel him wasting away under the tips of his fingers and deep down fear was gnawing at his insides that Ivar might not even reach camp alive. 

Later, he would not be able to recall how they got back to the ship or how he ended up at the helm while Hvitserk was sitting on the other end, his back pressed against the wood, and their little brother gathered in his arms. None of the men said anything as they sailed back to their camp. None of them dared to look at Ivar. Those were men that had seen Ivar grow up in Kattegat, men that had sailed with his father before, men that were loyal to his family. It hurt them just as much as it hurt Bjorn and Hvitserk to see Ivar like this. He noticed that Hvitserk kept listening to Ivar’s breathing, that he kept two fingers pressed against his neck. Hvitserk too knew that it seemed impossible that Ivar would survive a journey across the waves back to the shore they had their camp on. 

The sun was already rising again, as the camp came back into sight. The moment they returned, they were greeted by their brothers and Floki. Bjorn watched numbly how Ubbe all but pulled Ivar from Hvitserk’s arms to carry him into the tent that the brothers shared. He had never experienced a camp of so many warriors to be so silent as at this moment as the people watched Ubbe walk towards their tent without a word. In a way, Bjorn was thankful for the silence. He was exhausted as he got off the ship and patted Sigurd’s shoulder.

“Is he alive?” Floki was the first one to speak, his eyes all but pleading with Bjorn.

“Barely,” He echoed Hvitserk’s earlier words. “It's a miracle he is still alive. Please … be so good and ask Helga to help us with his wounds. I do not know a more skilled healer than she and I do not trust anyone else to take care of Ivar right now.” 

Floki nodded and pulled him into a quick hug. Bjorn however turned to find Harald and his brother nearby and ushered them to come over and take care of their prisoner before he, Hvitserk, and Sigurd followed their brother Ubbe into their tent. 

Ubbe’s face was grim, as he was cleaning his brother’s skin with a cloth and the water from a bucket. Without a word, both Hvitserk and Sigurd joined him on the ground next to Ivar, grabbed rags of their own, dunked them in water, and started cleaning Ivar’s body from all the blood and filth. Bjorn, however, sat down heavily on a footstool and watched them with a heavy heart. The more dirt they managed to wash away, the more injuries they unveiled and the grimmer the situation looked. By the time Helga arrived, Ivar was cleaned up as much as possible and the full extent of his injuries was visible to his brothers. They had torn his fingernails out, broken his bones, and cut his flesh. If Ivar would survive this, he would have many new scars to tell the story of his torture. 

**-End of Chapter 5-**


	6. Chapter 6

Ubbe didn't get any rest after Bjorn and Hvitserk returned with their brother. While they slept and recovered from their mission, someone had to look after the camp and their prisoner. They had promised the king that they would return home but Ivar was in no condition to travel if he would pull through at all. So far, hours after Ivar had been delivered back to camp he didn't look to be improving. He looked as if he was rotting away under Helga’s care to no fault of hers, of course.

“Your brother,” Harald addressed Ubbe and joined him as he walked through the camp, past the tents of their warriors, past people drinking and chatting, to talk to the prisoner that his brothers had brought home with them. As far as Ubbe was concerned, they should have just killed him and be done with it, this bishop. “How is he?”

Harald was a peculiar character. Ubbe trusted Halfdan, his brother and he knew that Bjorn trusted him too. Harald, on the other hand … Ubbe simply didn't know if he could be trusted. Right now, he seemed honest enough as he inquired about Ivar. Ubbe paused only briefly, feeling the knot in his stomach tighten as if even the mention of his brother alone would cause him physical pain. “I don't know,” He then answered truthfully as he looked at the older king. For just a moment, Harald, who was an older brother himself, seemed sympathetic to his plight. “His injuries are manyfold and I have seen men die from lesser wounds as he has suffered. But Ivar is a stubborn bastard, he is not to be underestimated.”

“Clearly,” Harald replied even though the man barely knew Ivar unlike Ubbe who had grown up with him, who had carried him around on his shoulders, and his back, who had lived with his baby brother, had held him in his arms and played with him. Ivar’s screams had driven them up the walls when he was little and for a long time, none of them had understood why he was screaming and crying so much. Now as an adult, Ubbe realized, of course, that Ivar had been in great amounts of pain, in agony his whole life. And still, Ivar had prevailed. He had shown the world that he was strong. The whole of Kattegat knew that he was strong and still his brother had felt the desire to prove his worth as he had followed their father to England. That was all there was to it. Ivar had wanted to prove himself and their father, that sly bastard, had preyed on Ivar’s desire to prove himself.

“The prisoner.” Ubbe reminded himself why he came here, to this part of the camp. “Is he awake yet?”

“His wounds have been cleaned and bandaged and Halfdan said that he woke up a while ago. He is a peculiar one, though. Behaves like a rabid dog.”

“He fits right in here then,” Ubbe snorted and Harald patted him on the back as Ubbe moved past the man and towards the tent where they kept the man they captured at Lindisfarne - like their father had captured a monk so many, many years ago. It all seemed to come full-circle. Everything here held Ragnar’s spirit, it seemed. It was as if he was still around, guiding them. The man was on his knees despite the pain he had to be in from his wounds. He was praying, his hands tied together behind his back but his face grim and his eyes shooting daggers at the intruder without stopping once in his prayer. Ubbe stopped a couple of feet away from the man, crossing his arms in front of his chest and allowing the man to finish his prayer until the mumbling finally ceased.

“You are the bishop, isn’t that right?” The man remained silent. “I have seen you in battle. I have never seen a priest fight. I didn't know that was possible.”

Again, the man didn't say anything and already Ubbe was starting to get frustrated. He hadn't slept since they returned to camp after the battle with Aethelwulf. He had allowed Sigurd and the others to rest while he had stayed on guard with Floki most of the time. He wouldn't have been able to sleep anyway.

“You won’t be pleased to hear that my brother is still alive.” The eyes of the bishop lit up at that and his head moved just slightly, his chin raising, his eyes fixating on Ubbe at last. Obviously, he had his interest but not in the way he would have assumed. He didn't look angry as much as he seemed relieved. “It is not yet certain, however, that he will survive what you did to him. My brothers want to wait until Ivar gets a chance to speak to us before we kill you. That is the only reason you are still alive, Bishop. If it was just for me, I would have already hung, drawn, and quartered you for laying a hand on my brother.” He spat on the ground in front of the bishop. “You Christians,” He hissed. “To torture a defenseless cripple … and you call _us_ savages. At least we don't beat and torture a helpless man! And for what? To convert him to your God? Or just to make a point?”

The bishop didn't say anything, his eyes lowered back to the ground in front of him again. He hadn't expected him to say anything either. Instead, the man started murmuring to himself again, yet another prayer, he assumed. With a grunt, Ubbe turned away and left the man in his tent because if he wouldn't, he would start beating the man to death.

※※※※※※※

He was sitting at Ivar’s bedside and cleaning his wounds as the youngest son of Ragnar Lothbrok suddenly, and after hours of silence, stirred. Sigurd almost dropped his brother’s mangled left hand out of surprise as he heard him groan. His hand looked like it had been crushed by the hammer of a smith. It was mangled and swollen and Sigurd feared that it would never fully heal completely. Knowing that Ivar needed his hands so badly, he felt dread at the sight and guilt for not saying anything sooner. Ivar’s eye fluttered open and first, Sigurd was convinced that Ivar would fall back asleep in a matter of seconds but his brother surprised him, as he blinked against the soft light that was filtering in from the outside as the sun stood high in the sky.

“Ivar,” He addressed his brother silently so as not to startle him but Ivar flinched as if he had yelled at him. His sleepy blue eyes became wide with terror, his breathing quickened and he tried to pull his hand out of Sigurd’s grip immediately. “Ivar, it's me … Sigurd!” He tried to calm his brother but it didn't have the desired effect. If anything, it only added to his terror as Ivar started screaming and thrashing, reopening his wounds in the process and screaming louder from the pain flaring through his body. 

He was beyond reason at this point, reduced to an animalistic state of naked fear that Sigurd would have never expected to see in his brother’s eyes. Hastily, he tried to restrain Ivar but that only made it worse. The noise quickly attracted Hvitserk who had left the tent a few moments ago to catch a breath after taking care of their little brother for the last hour or so together with Sigurd. Hvitserk looked ready to vomit, every time he looked at Ivar, that broken, mangled creature wearing their brother’s skin. 

Hvitserk had been there with Bjorn, he had seen the cell, the state Ivar had been in and it weighed heavy on his mind undoubtedly as it weighed on Sigurd’s mind what he had seen in those visions. Now, however, Hvitserk rushed inside and stared at the scene in horror. He could see the cogs turning in his head, the moment when Hvitserk’s instinct told him to attack his own brother for causing harm to Ivar but then, Hvitserk turned back and started yelling for Ubbe to come as loudly as he could through the camp of warriors around them.

It took mere seconds until Hvitserk returned with their brother Ubbe who came rushing into the tent, murder in his eyes as he saw how Sigurd was trying to restrain their youngest brother while simultaneously trying not to inflict further pain. It was self-control that made Ubbe walk slowly towards them, made him kneel down at Ivar’s feet and grab them with both his large hands. Ivar stilled momentarily at the touch. Ubbe was the only one of them who had ever been allowed anywhere near Ivar’s legs or feet because their mother had so often given the burden of handling Ivar to him instead of his younger brothers. Sigurd could only imagine that Ubbe’s hands were hot against the cold flesh of Ivar’s deformed feet. The memories of broken bones shaping them even now as an adult. 

“Ivar,” Ubbe said with that deep and steady voice of his, gravely, and slow. Ubbe, who had always been a rock during a stormy sea, calm and level-headed. “Ivar you are safe now. Stop fighting. We got you, okay? No more pain.” The words worked like a spell on Ivar as he suddenly went lax in Sigurd’s arms. His breathing was still much too quick and labored but he had no longer the eyes of a scared animal as he looked at his brothers out of feverish eyes. “Let us clean your wounds, okay? You have a fever, Ivar, you don't think straight.”

Ivar’s lips were moving but no sound came over them. If he wouldn't have screamed so loud just now, Sigurd would have feared that his tongue had been cut out by those monsters. Slowly, and with the help of Hvitserk and Ubbe, they managed to settle Ivar down on his bed again and covered him in warm furs so that he would no longer be cold, all the while Ivar stared at them as if he couldn't believe his eyes. Long weeks of being held captive would do this to a person, he would assume.

Sigurd went back to cleaning the wounds left behind on his left hand. His fingers looked awful. His nails had been ripped out and left the flesh bloody and raw, exposed and vulnerable. He was extra careful as he cleaned his fingers and bandaged them again, splinting his hand as much as they could and making it stiff in the process so that his bones might heal properly. They could not risk his hand to heal as badly as his feet had in the past. Ivar needed his hands. Sigurd had learned a lot from Helga in the past and now his knowledge was finally put to good use, it seemed.

“Where am I?” It was the first time that Ivar actually spoke to them. His voice was thin and hoarse and sounded like smoke over a battlefield.

“We are at the shores of Wessex,” Hvitserk informed his brother. Uncharacteristically for Hvitserk, he didn't smack Ivar’s cheek or head but brushed his finger through their brother’s growing hair. “We came to take revenge for our father at Aelle and then we came to find you. It took us longer than it should have because of that bastard Prince Aethelwulf.”

Ivar flinched at the sound of the name.

“We captured the man who held you prisoner, Bishop Heahmund,” Ubbe said but this, surprisingly, didn't get much of a reaction. Sigurd thought back to his visions. He had never seen the man in those. At least in his visions, Bishop Heahmund had never personally hurt his brother, he had just sent his rabid dogs after him. He couldn't deny the cold fury he felt knowing the man was here, knowing what his men had done to Ivar, knowing what he had allowed to happen to him while his brothers were still in the dark about that. “Bjorn wants to crucify him tomorrow. We need to head back to Kattegat soon, he wants it done before we leave.”

“Ivar,” Sigurd said, trying to gain his brother’s attention. Sluggishly, Ivar turned his head just enough to look at him. A part of him wished he had not. Ivar looked horrible, now with his eyes open more than before. When Hvitserk and Bjorn had first returned with him, Sigurd had barely recognized him until the layers of dirt and grime had been washed off of his body and still, his brother looked like a stranger to him. “We have to tell you something.” Slowly Ivar’s gaze shifted from Sigurd to Hvitserk, and back to Ubbe who looked at Ivar’s feet instead. They all knew that Ivar needed to learn of their mother’s death and better sooner rather than later but it seemed cruel to say it.

“Ubbe?” Ivar’s voice was soft as he addressed his older brother but Ubbe bit his lips and Sigurd sympathized with him. It was not an easy task that lay ahead of them. Not an easy truth to reveal to someone like Ivar. 

“Our mother is dead,” Sigurd said quietly as he still held Ivar’s hand in his. He expected an explosion of sorts, screaming, crying, hitting, thrashing - _something_. But Ivar remained still on his bed, unmoving and unblinking for a while. The shock of that news too was much for his scattered mind to grasp. 

※※※※※※※

The rhythmic beating of drums filled the early morning air as the sun rose the next morning. Heahmund knew that his time had come even before Bjorn Ragnarsson came to take him from his tent, his face painted with blood. He had heard the scream of a goat earlier. It was probably the blood of the poor animal that Bjorn, this proud warrior, wore on his face as a display of his godliness - or whatever it was that he was trying to display here. 

He was dragged into the early morning light of a new day, the sun was slowly rising over the sea and cast a magenta hue on the world. It should be the most peaceful hour of the day instead the world was filled with the sounds of drums and the howling and singing of the heathens as they were chanting to their pagan Gods. He was just a man and he could admit that the sight filled him with dread. There was no shame in being afraid, no shame in fear. Even Jesus Christ had been afraid as he had faced his fate. The important thing in the face of fear was only to not allow fear to get the better of you, to not let it rule you. He would not cower in front of these heathens out of fear. If death awaited him on this fateful morning, he would embrace it.

As he was paraded through the crowd of pagans, he could see that all of them had painted their faces with blood. Even in the soft morning light, they looked like demons as they were chanting, singing, and dancing around the great bonfire that they had erected in the center of their camp. Briefly, he wondered if they were going to burn him alive. Bjorn, however, did not lead him towards the fire but closer towards the shoreline under the chants and insults of the heathens that were raining down on him.

Heahmund had no need to know their language to know that their words were filled with disgust and hatred towards him. Hatred for the man who had tortured their young prince. Heahmund knew that he was guilty in their eyes and he couldn't push the blame onto his men either. He might not have inflicted harm on Ivar with his own two hands but he had ordered it and guilt was still heavy in the pit of his stomach. Guilt not about the torture but the horrible deeds his men had done in his name and without his knowledge. Heahmund had always known that he would not have a long life and that he would pay for his sins at one point but to die at the hands of heathens… What a disgrace. And yet, the good Christians of this land would remember him as a martyr. Whatever would be left of his body would be laid to rest in the church of Sherborne underneath the altar and people would flock to his church to pray over his remains. He didn't deserve such honors. He was, after all, but a man. A weak man who had never been able to withstand the desires of his body.

Bjorn led him towards the shore where his brothers waited for him, all except Ivar. It was the first time that Heahmund came face to face with all of them at once. Until now, he had only met three and meeting was maybe a little much, considering that he had fought against two of them and the third was currently dragging him around like a misbehaving dog. They all stood tall and proud, blonde hair, and piercing blue eyes - making Ivar stand out of the group all the more. Ivar, with his dark hair and his crippled body, was truly and thoroughly the black sheep of the family as it seemed now that Heahmund got to see his older brothers. 

The Greeks would have hailed those four brothers as god-like, kissed by Adonis, perhaps. Yet, there was something about Ivar that Heahmund couldn't quite explain but that had struck a raw nerve inside of him the moment he had first seen the runt of Ragnar Lothbrok’s family. He was the image of imperfection against the golden shine of his four older brothers and still, he seemed special in a very different way. Realizing that Ivar was not with his brothers made his stomach twist again. He wondered if he had succumbed to his injuries by now and still didn't understand why he cared about that in the first place. He would have died anyway, sooner or later. Aethelwulf would have killed him whether he would have converted or not. Heahmund would have killed him if he would have been allowed to.

To their feet, a wooden cross lay in the sand, and beside the brothers stood a tall lanky man with crazy eyes and dark marks on his face, a hammer in his hands, and a dark scowl on his face. As the procession came to a halt before the cross on the ground, Bjorn pushed him to his knees and immediately two other men were at his side as Bjorn stepped to stand with his brothers in front of Heahmund and the now deathly silent crowd of Viking warriors and raiders.

“Bishop Heahmund of Sherborne, for the torture of our brother Ivar, you have been sentenced to die at the cross.”

A smile passed over his face. To die at the cross was an honor that he did not deserve but those heathens thought it was a punishment. It was a painful death, that much was certain and yet it was a great honor for every devout Christian. Soon, he thought, he would be sitting at the right hand of the father, purified by the agony he would suffer at the hands of those heathens.

“Any last words?” The next older brother, Ubbe, asked, his eyes as cold as the first and last time that they had spoken. He had heard many things about the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok. One was an explorer, another one a berserker, all of them worthy of their own tales of greatness, apparently, and yet as they stood before Heahmund, they were all boys in his eyes, at the start of their journeys still.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” Behind him the Vikings were starting to laugh, one of the men beside him hit him in the head but Bjorn raised his hand to calm them down.

“Let him speak,” He told the others and they quieted down at his order.

“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.“

He was sure that most of the people around had not understood a single word but the four Ragnarssons stood there with grim expressions and allowed him to speak his prayer before they would kill him. The snarl on the face of the man holding the hammer, however, had gotten worse and worse with each word he had said, the hatred in his eyes burning brighter with each passing second. He could smell his hate like a bad odor.

Bjorn nodded at his henchmen and Heahmund was launched onto his feet again only to find himself slamming into the vertical beam of the cross with his back. He didn't fight it as his hands were untied and his arms spread against the wood. No, he welcomed what was to come. There was no reason for him to fight back. The men tied his arms to the horizontal beam and his heart started racing. He didn't wish for his death. Not yet. He was not ready to die yet but if this was the will of God - and it must be the will of his God - then he could nothing but bear the pain as Jesus had before him. The pain was agonizing as the first nail was driven through his right hand and into the wood of the cross but he refused to scream out. 

It was the man who had stared at him with such unbridled hatred before who was now the one driving in those nails. Heahmund watched and felt his stomach tighten, how he placed the second nail against the palm of his left hand and held it there before the man’s wild eyes found Heahmund’s. It was the first time he heard him speak and he was surprised to hear him speak his language, albeit with such a heavy accent that it was hard to understand him.

“You hurt my boy,” The man all but whispered so only Heahmund could hear him. “May your God cast you into Hell to suffer for all eternity.” With those words, he brought the hammer down and the nail through his hand with one single blow. This time, Heahmund did scream. The pain was truly agonizing and the Vikings did not waste a second to raise his cross until it was upright and stuck in the ground securely.

“We had a priest living in our house for many years,” Bjorn Ragnarsson addressed him again as he walked around the cross to face him. “My brothers don't remember much of him, they were too young, but I learned many things from the priest.” Heahmund watched him grab a spear from one of his warriors. “He told me many stories about your beliefs. He told me the story of your Lord Jesus and how he died on the cross for your sins. If I remember correctly a spear was involved in that.”

A murderous gleam shone brightly in Bjorn’s eyes as he grabbed the spear tighter and went in for the attack. It was the fury of an older brother taking revenge for their younger sibling that drove the man to do this. In a way, Heahmund could respect Bjorn Ragnarsson for that. Heahmund screwed his eyes shut, expecting to be pierced by the steel of his enemy when a voice suddenly rang out through the crowd.

“Stop!” The voice was hoarse and thin, barely loud enough to make itself heard, and yet it was like a beacon in a stormy sea. “Bjorn! Stop!”

And, like a spell, Bjorn Ironside actually lowered the spear in his hands. Heahmund watched how the crowd parted like the red sea in front of a young man who was helped to walk by a woman with flowing blonde hair even though she seemed barely able to support the weight of Ivar, her worried eyes resting on the boy, her arms wrapped around him securely. The young man was dressed in a blue tunic that seemed too big on him and, as far as he could see, he was covered in bandages. Many of the Vikings bowed their heads to him but it was one of the brothers, Ubbe, who quickly bridged the distance between the side of his crucifixion and helped the woman support his brother who all but sunk into Ubbe’s side. It was the first time, now that he was meant to die, that he saw a human being in the heathen he had held captive for so long, the heathen who had killed two of his guards with his hands and teeth. He had quickly appreciated the boy’s quick mind and sharp tongue but now he saw a young man, a little brother, beloved by his family, cared for.

“What do you mean?” Bjorn asked his brother as Ubbe slowly managed to get Ivar closer without actually carrying him. Already Ivar seemed exhausted. He could see the fine sheen of sweat on his face, the fever in his eyes.

“I meant stop…” He muttered but without bite or mirth. “He will not die today.”

“He tortured you!”

“And he will pay!” Ivar hissed sharply, glaring up at his oldest brother. “But we are taking him with us … He will be my prisoner.”

※※※※※※※

He didn't know what had made him do it. However, when Helga told him about the crucifixion, something inside of him had stirred. This man was his tormentor and yet he had never put a hand on Ivar. He had cleaned his wounds, given him to eat - and then thrown him to the wolves again. All that in the name of his God. All that in the name of converting him to Christianity - as if that would have ever been a possibility. 

His brothers helped him onto Ubbe’s ship in the late hours of the morning. He could barely move his body on his own. Every breath was like being pierced by thousands of daggers. His fever had yet to break. He was exhausted. Utterly and completely exhausted. While Ubbe took control, Ivar was seated at the bow of the ship, where he was surrounded snugly by the sturdy wood of the ship that Floki had built, huddled in furs and blankets to keep warm, a hood drawn over his head. Heahmund, his prisoner, was on the ship as well, sitting a few feet away tied to the mast and muttering prayers to himself. Every now and then, Heahmund’s crystal blue eyes fell upon him, meeting his own gaze, but his expression remained unreadable. Ivar wondered if he had ever been at sea before. 

It was not his first journey across the ocean. The last one had ended with him almost drowning and he couldn't lie and deny that he wouldn't be scared as he sat there now, waiting for the ship to leave for Kattegat. He was terrified. Terrified of the water, of the memories of drowning in the storm, of the memories of the well bubbling back to the surface. The moment the journey began, he felt like vomiting out his guts.

He clung to his furs and blankets as if they would help him in any way, leaning his head heavily against the sturdy wood of the ship, and trying to ignore the rocking of the waves as their journey began. The sounds of waves slamming into the wood he was leaning against was the only sound in his ears for the longest time. 

The sun was already low on the horizon and Ivar had emptied his stomach twice over the railing of the boat, by the time Sigurd made his way over to where he was sitting. At least, Ivar thought bitterly, he would be able to claim that he had only vomited because of the fever that was clouding his mind and not because he would be seasick. What kind of true Viking would get seasick, after all? He remembered how his father had sat with him on his first voyage across the sea, patting his back awkwardly every time Ivar had hurled into the water. He remembered some of the warriors on their ship laughing, some of them regarding him with sympathy and some even with a certain fondness that Ivar had never quite experienced before from the normal people of Kattegat. Now too most of their warriors regarded him with sympathy and fondness. He hated it. They treated him like this broken little thing it seemed but maybe it was only because, for the first time, they saw an actual human being in Ivar the boneless and not just the crippled, monstrous son of Ragnar Lothbrok. The idea pained him. Until now, Sigurd had helped Ubbe steer the ship and check if they were still on the right course from time to time.

“Care for something to eat?” Sigurd asked as he held out a piece of bread to Ivar. The sight alone made his stomach churn again but there was nothing more he had to offer to the sea as a tribute to ensure his safe journey home. So, instead of hurling over the railing once more, Ivar just pulled his furs higher until he could almost hide behind them. “Judging by the color of your face, you don't,” Sigurd huffed but there was no taunt or malice in his words. In fact, dare he say it, worry was coloring the sound of Sigurd’s voice as he spoke and sat down beside him. 

Sigurd and he had always been at odds. Sigurd had been angry and jealous of him because their mother had loved him more than Sigurd. Right now, there was nothing of the old animosities between them, though. Sigurd even put an arm around his trembling body and allowed Ivar to lean into the comfort of his brother’s warmth. He was freezing cold despite the warm cocoon he was in.

“I bet you are happy now,” Ivar murmured. “To see me like this, to know mother is dead - the only person that ever loved me...”

“I’m not.” Sigurd brushed him and his pathetic attempts of goading him into a fight off. That was new. “And it is not true that she was the only one. Floki loves you, _we_ love you. Do you think we would have waged war on Ecbert and risked so much for you if we would not love our little brother? You might be yet another monstrous spawn of Loki but you are still our brother, Ivar.”

He didn't know what to make of this, so he hummed in response. Usually, he would have made a cutting remark, tried to anger his brother, goading him into a fight, but right now he didn't have the strength left to fight, nor the will to argue. “Hvitserk told me you had visions about me … that you knew I was alive because of them.”

“Yes,” Sigurd said and clamped his lips together. For a brief moment, fear flooded Ivar’s entire body, making him feel like he was boiling - or was it the fever? And then, as if adding insult to injury, Sigurd actually went ahead and confirmed his worst fears. “I know, Ivar,” He muttered so quietly that only Ivar could hear him. “I know what happened to you, I’ve seen it in my vision - what those men did to you.”

“Sigurd,” His voice was hellfire as he spoke but he kept his voice low, his teeth bared, his eyes full of murderous intent as he looked at his older brother. “I swear to all the Gods in Asgard, I will kill you if you tell anyone.”

However, his brother surprised him once more as he didn't flinch away from him like he used to do when Ivar would threaten him with murder. His eyes were sad and maybe that was worse than knowing that his brother hated and feared him. This was pity and pity was worse than any injury he had ever had. Sigurd tightened his hold around Ivar’s shoulders and pressed a kiss to his hair - something he had never done before, something only Ubbe would do.

“I won’t,” He promised him quietly and for the first time, Ivar actually believed his brother. “It is behind you, Ivar.”

**-End of Chapter 6-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not fully satisfied with how this chapter turned out but tell me what you think regardless <3 <3 <3


	7. Chapter 7

Kattegat was no longer the same without his mother, with Lagertha on the throne. He held a deep burning hatred in his heart for this woman and yet he could understand her actions. Would he have acted any differently than her if he had been in her position? Knowing that he would have done the same thing changed nothing about his thirst for revenge or his hatred for the woman, though.

When they landed in Kattegat a week after they set sail from the shores of Wessex, Ivar’s condition had hardly improved. His wounds had started to heal, yes, but his condition had worsened throughout the journey. His brother Bjorn had to carry him to his house near the longhouse and Helga kept hovering by his side with Floki, cleaning his wounds, changing his dressings, taking care of his fever and the infection that had claimed his body while Ivar was being in and out of conscience the entire time. 

“My brother is tough as leather,” Ubbe commented as a little over another week had come to pass and Ivar was finally sitting upright in front of his small house for the first time since his return. He knew that he still looked like death warmed over but his body was slowly regaining strength each day now. “We thought at least a dozen times that we had lost you on this journey but here you are.”

“Is that disappointment I hear in your voice, Ubbe?”

“Not in the slightest.” His brother huffed and ruffled his hair as he sat down beside him on the narrow bench. “Your hair has gotten long.”

“We should shave it off,” Ivar muttered. “I’m not a warrior. I don't deserve to grow it out.” In the eyes of their society, he was nothing. He might be the son of a great hero but that did not change anything about him being nothing but a cripple. He had learned his lesson now. 

“You fought tooth and nail over in England and since you returned. Our enemies don't always have to come in the form of Saxons or other Vikings. You fought a long hard battle just now.” Ivar snorted quietly. “Also with the long hair, you finally don't look like a petulant child anymore. Now you only need to start growing a proper beard.”

“It took Bjorn forever until he managed that,” Ivar commented. “He was already in his twenty-eighth year when that finally happened and if I look at Hvitserk and Sigurd they don't seem to fare much better. You, on the other hand, have the beard growth of a bear, dear brother. I have little hope in that regard for myself.”

Ubbe laughed and patted his shoulder. “You will get there,” He chuckled with a fond smile. “You are only seventeen, barely a man.” Those words struck something inside of Ivar that he refused to explore further. Yet, it left a sour taste in his mouth. “I am glad to have you back and on your feet again.”

“More or less.”

“More or less.” 

“I’m afraid you guys need to find a cart for me again to pull me around the town like when we were children. With that hand I can’t crawl around, I would go in circles like a headless chicken if I tried.”

“It's a small price to pay for your recovery,” Ubbe smiled. “Although I would really like to see how you crawl in circles. I carry you on my back until it breaks if necessary.”

“Am I not too heavy?”

“You are my brother, you will never be too heavy.” There was a sadness to those words that Ivar couldn't decipher yet. Something was ailing his big brother. Ubbe was the most carefree of his brothers at times and definitely the most sensitive and open-minded. He had always admired his compassion and his big heart, feeling even more like he was lacking whenever he was around this bright star that was his brother Ubbe. Looking back on his life, Ubbe had often been like the sun for him. Ivar had loved his mother dearly, yes, like every boy loved his mother. Ubbe was something else, though. He had admired him, followed him everywhere like a duckling. Whatever Ubbe did, little Ivar had wanted to do as well and whenever his big brother had smiled at him or hugged him, he had felt a little less alone, a little less broken and angry.

“What is bothering you?”

“What?”

“You are thinking about something and we both know that this is not your strong suit. Tell me. Maybe I can help you untie that knot in your head.”

“I’m glad to see that you have not lost your sense of humor,” Ubbe sighed with a fond roll of his eyes before he leaned back against the bench. From this position, they could overlook a part of the marketplace, watch the hustle and bustle of people. Ivar’s house was a little crooked just like him, smaller than the houses of his brothers too. Well, it wasn’t like he was going to have a family anyway, right? “What are you going to do about Lagertha? Our brothers worry that you will take revenge on her.”

“What is Bjorn’s opinion on the matter?”

“Since when do you care about Bjorn’s opinion?” He rolled his eyes and his brother continued. “Bjorn already said that he will neither fight on our side nor on his mother’s if it would come to it.”

“Then he is a coward.”

“No,” Ubbe shot him down right away. Ubbe had always looked up and admired Bjorn, after all. He was fiercely loyal to their oldest brother. “He is not willing or able to choose a side, Ivar. We are his brothers and Lagertha is his mother. How should he choose between one or the other? Bjorn said that he would understand it if you were going to take revenge. He does not agree with his mother’s act of revenge but he understands how we might want revenge for our mother now.”

For a long moment, Ivar was silent but then he looked at Ubbe again. “Do _you_ want revenge?”

“A part of me does,” Ubbe confessed quietly into the cold air of the morning. “A part of me thinks that mother deserved what she got, and yet another part of me thinks that none of that would have happened if Ragnar would have handled the situation differently back in the day. Then again, who am I to say if he handled it poorly? I was not even born yet.”

“And yet you were the bone of contention.” Ivar poked him with a finger. “Not even born yet and already the object of offense, poor Ubbe. Maybe it's _you_ we should kill.” Ubbe smacked his head in response with a low laugh. “Tell Bjorn he has no reason to worry. I am in no condition to fight anyone or anything right now. I am too weak to even drag my cripple ass around Kattegat or my own home. He has nothing to fear of me right now but that does not mean I forgive his mother or that I will not eventually seek revenge on her when the time is right.”

“Lagertha actually wants to see you.”

“Oh?” He huffed.

“Maybe she wants to make amends with you.”

“She would be smarter than I gave her credit for then,” Ivar chuckled. “Later, perhaps. She can come here, to my humble abode if that is not beneath her now that she is queen and took our mother’s place.” 

He had not seen the woman yet. It was his first day out of bed and so far Lagertha had not shown up to his house. Why would she? He was but a cripple and she the queen. She would not lower herself to visit a cripple. It was kind enough of her to allow him to keep his house, after all. He knew of villages where they kept their cripples in the pigsty and he harbored no illusions about the fact that this would have been his fate as well had his father not been Ragnar Lothbrok and his mother a princess. Lagertha was granting him mercy in allowing him to live in a proper house and not rely on his brothers’ kindness for shelter. Ivar had always been aware of his status. He had grown up in the longhouse until it had been time to move out, sure. He had been served by slaves, been called a prince but he knew that his life could change at any given second. If their town had been overrun by another jarl or king, he would have been reduced to his rightful place even below the slaves. Maybe that was where his cruelty towards them came from.

“I am surprised to hear that,” Ubbe smiled. “I hardly recognize you, Ivar. Has this experience mellowed you out?”

“Not at all, Ubbe,” He said, turning his eyes into stone once more as he looked at his big brother. “I am still the same and my wrath is still the same and my anger still burns brightly. I am smart enough to see, though, when I am at a disadvantage in life and play nice. My time will come. Lagertha’s time will come. First, however, I would like to see my prisoner.”

“We can arrange that.”

※※※※※※※

On the town square of Kattegat, in front of the longhouse, Heahmund was a victim not only to the harsh weather of this foreign land but also to the people of Kattegat who sneered at him, berated him with insults that he could not understand, and threw rotting fruit at him. Their disdain was born from anger. Anger about the fact that Heahmund had brought harm to the youngest of the five princes of Kattegat. It seemed, however, that it had little to do with the love for their fledgling prince and more to do with him being a Christian foreigner that was tied to a post in the town square and could not defend himself against their vile attacks. 

Other than being thrown at with fruit Heahmund did not face any harm, though. None other than _Bjorn Ironside_ had made sure of that. One of the princes was always nearby, watching him with unbridled hatred and disgust but keeping the good people of Kattegat from bringing serious injury to his person. The queen too seemed supportive of the decision of her son to keep him from harm for the time being. That in and of itself was surprising to Heahmund. He had expected to find a mother’s fury when he had first met her. He had expected her to slay him for what had been done to her youngest child but Queen Lagertha had looked at him with thinly veiled curiosity and maybe a slight hint of amusement. The only thing this woman had said to him was something about _‘Christians always finding a way to Kattegat’_.

He didn't know much about Queen Lagertha except what he could see with his own eyes and that was that she held the respect of her people and that especially the women adored and looked up to her. She was a warrior, that much he could tell.

A week had passed of him in this predicament. One of the brothers had fed him every other day and given him to drink. Even though he was a prisoner, they treated him with civility. He hadn't heard much about Ivar and he hadn't asked. He had endured his situation in silence and grace as his God would expect him to. It was now, after a week that he was pulled from his musings and meditation as he heard the people around talking in hushed whispers. As he raised his head, he saw Ubbe approach and, on his back, Ivar. Alive.

It was not so much that he had been worried about the Heathen - concerned, yes. But worry he could not offer his enemy. Still, there was a part of him that was relieved to see him alive and on the mend at last. He had witnessed how Ivar’s condition had gotten worse and worse with each day on the ship. He had been hallucinating at times, talking in his native tongue until one of his two brothers on board had been able to soothe him. It was the part of himself that had given his life to Christ and his fellow man, that was relieved to see him upright again, he told himself. The part of himself that still remained in foreign lands where he had nursed the poor and the unfortunate back to health or offered an ear to the pain of those in need of comfort. He was a man of God as much as he was a warrior. And, as a man of God, his concern belonged to every human soul because even a heathen like Ivar might still be saved yet.

He watched how Ubbe sat his brother down on the back of a cart just a couple of steps away from where Heahmund was tied up. Ivar’s eyes met his like they had during all those times Heahmund had visited him in his cell, without fear and without restraint. Not for the first time, Heahmund noticed the peculiar intensity of the blue of his eyes. All of the five brothers seemed to share those glowing blue orbs, like lightning trapped behind glass.

“Priest,” Ivar addressed him. He chose a rather playful tone, much the same as he had usually employed during their conversations inside his cell but right now Heahmund could tell that it was merely a facade. He was still weak. “Good to see that my people have treated you with civility. More so than you ever treated me with. And still you Christians call us heathens, call us wild, call us uncivilized.”

“You are wild and uncivilized.”

Ivar let out a low laugh at that while his brother was shooting daggers at him for this remark. Ubbe remained close by as if Heahmund meant any kind of threat to the young prince right now.

“Have you been put in chains and locked in with rats? Have you been starved? Have you been forced to sit in your own filth?”

He gritted his teeth before he bared them at the heathens. “I assume you want my death,” He gritted out eventually. “Then do it already.”

“Your death?” Ivar almost laughed again, amused by the thought. “No. You will be my prisoner like I was yours.” He looked at his brother and said something in his mother tongue to him that Heahmund didn't understand. Ubbe nodded and shortly after that the tall man left him and his brother in the middle of the town under the watchful gaze of his enemies. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn't be able to cause the young prince any harm now. He would be ripped to shreds before he would even be able to cross the distance between them.

“Are you disappointed to find me alive?” Ivar asked with a sly grin playing on his handsome face. He had shadows underneath his eyes and his skin looked waxen. He was still sick, cradling his left hand against his chest without even realizing it. Yet, he tried to display strength here in front of the good people of Kattegat because he probably knew that, if he would show any sign of vulnerability, they would disregard him and treat him like any other cripple. Even Heahmund knew that the only reason why the people of Kattegat cared about Ivar in the slightest was his father. To them, Ivar had no worth of his own.

“No,” Heahmund replied truthfully and Ivar raised his brows in surprise. “My goal was never to kill you, only to show you the light.” His words startled a laugh out of the young man even though it sounded hollow and did not reach his tired eyes.

“Maybe it is my turn now to show _you_ the light.”

To Ivar, this was all a game, it seemed. He did not fully understand the words he was saying, Heahmund thought. He was still a boy, after all. “Your people love you very much.” Heahmund decided to change the topic as he nodded in the direction of the peasants around them going about their business. “They gave me no reprieve since I arrived.”

“Love?” Ivar echoed incredulously as he leaned forward ever so slightly in his position. The grin he shot Heahmund next was that of a demon, that of the devil who had killed a guard with his teeth alone. “No, they don't love me. They are afraid of me.”

※※※※※※※

“I am worried about Ivar.” Wouldn't he have seen Sigurd’s lips moving, Hvitserk wouldn't have been sure that his brother had actually said these words. Sure, after everything that they had been through lately because of Ivar, it should be understood that Sigurd actually cared about their youngest but it was still something else to hear these words from Sigurd’s own mouth. He was sitting with Sigurd in the longhouse after most of the others had gone home for the night already. Hvitserk and Sigurd were usually among those who would stay the longest. This used to be their home, after all. Even with Lagertha on the throne, it still felt like home, and Lagerthe did not mind having the sons of Ragnar around. He was glad that, so far, it did not look like they would need to fight her any time soon. Sigurd and he were sitting at a table in a shadowy corner just talking by themselves when Sigurd said the words that seemed to tip Hvitserk’s entire world view on its head.

“What? Why?” Hvitserk asked, concern shortly taking a hold of his heart. He and Ivar had never been particularly close, not like Ivar and Ubbe were but that did not mean that he wouldn’t love his baby brother dearly. Seeing him in that cell, seeing him battle his injuries and his sickness had been awful. “Is he getting worse again? I thought he was finally getting better.”

“No … No, that is not the problem. He is on the mend,” Sigurd quickly reassured him before, with a shrug, he took another sip from his mead. “I do not like it that he’s alone with this priest now. I mean, could he not have told us to keep him in a proper cell or something? His own house is just dangerous! What if he frees himself and kills Ivar in his sleep?”

“Ivar does not seem to think this man is that much of a danger.”

“Yes, but Ivar has not seen him fight!” Sigurd argued. Hvitserk had never heard Sigurd so passionate about any topic concerning Ivar. In fact, until those visions had started, Hvitserk had been certain that Sigurd hated his little brother and would not care if Ivar would perish. “He is a berserker, Hvitserk! I have never seen anyone fight like this - especially not a priest.”

“I’m not saying I disagree with you.” Hvitserk shrugged in response. The truth was, he too did not like it one bit that the priest was being kept in Ivar’s house while his little brother was truly vulnerable. “But we both know that when Ivar has made a decision that there is nothing anyone could do about it.”

“Still,” Sigurd sighed. “This man held him captive for weeks and let his men torture him. Thinking that this same man is now sleeping in Ivar’s house is making me sick. I don't know if I could sleep, knowing that he’s around Ivar.”

“I did not know you cared so much about him. You and Ivar only ever fought.”

“We are brothers,” Sigurd replied with a glare as if that would actually explain it all. Well, perhaps in Sigurd’s mind it did. “And you have not seen the things I have seen.”

“Well, if you are so worried, you could always just sleep at his house as well,” Hvitserk chuckled. “A word of advice, though, Sigurd. Ivar is stronger and tougher than you think. Somehow he managed to survive all this against all odds. I think he will be much more of a danger to that priest than the other way around.”

※※※※※※※

The priest was muttering some prayer - again. Ivar sat on his bed, watching the man as he knelt on the ground, tied to a wooden post only a few feet away from the bed, with unbridled curiosity. He was eating an apple. Not because he was hungry but because Ubbe kept pestering him to eat and because he was bored. Ivar had never done well when there was nothing to do for him and when he could not go anywhere. Nothing was worse than being bed-ridden. He had spent far too much time of his young life confined to a bed, hidden, kept away from all the fun stuff. He remembered watching the other children play in the sunny streets of Kattegat while he had been forced to remain inside and learn to read runes by Floki. Sure, he had loved his time with the old boat-builder but even then it had seemed like the world was turning without him being able to participate as if life was passing him by. It felt the same right now too. His brothers were out there, doing their thing, leading their lives while he was stuck at home, blessed only by their visits from time to time.

“Blessed is he who walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of the sinner, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful.” As he bit into the fruit and started chewing slowly, the bishop actually looked at him as if he still hoped to convert Ivar with those empty words he spoke. “For he delights in the law of the Lord and in that Lord doth he meditates night and day. And he should be planted like a tree by the rivers of water…” A chuckle escaped him without his consent. Something about the way this man thought his words held any meaning at all, was endearingly funny to Ivar. Or was it the fact that the tables had turned now? “That bringeth forth his fruit in his season.” Ivar took one last bit out of his apple and casually threw it before the bishop, knowing that he couldn't reach it.

He thought about the nights he had been hungry, the days when his mind had been torn to pieces by madness, how he made plans of eating the rats in his cell. This little taunt was still too good for a man like Heahmund. At least _they_ were treating their prisoners with humility. They wouldn't let them starve or keep them from drinking water. He should order a group of men to break all the bones in Heahmund’s body. He should order a group of men to push him onto the ground and- He stopped his thoughts from wandering because if he allowed them to stray, he would kill the man - or himself. He wondered what his father would have done in a situation like this. Would he have raged and used violence? He didn't even know yet what he wanted to do with Heahmund or why he allowed him to let him live. Retribution, perhaps? As much as he hated the man, his thoughts always traveled back to the night Heahmund had carried him to his rooms and cleaned his wounds.

“You call me a heathen,” Ivar finally addressed the man as Heahmund stubbornly looked at the wall opposite of him again. “but to me, I am godly. I live by the Gods.”

“There is only one God!” Heahmund replied, at last looking at Ivar again with fury and suddenly they were back in Ivar’s cell, back at a stalemate. Two stubborn men - too stubborn to see the other's point of view.

“But I have _seen_ other gods,” Ivar replied calmly, a smile tearing his face apart as he did. “I have seen Odin, the Allfather, with my own eyes.”

“They are the devil’s work.”

Again a mirthless little chuckle escaped Ivar. Two stubborn men indeed. He should just kill him. It would be easy to kill him. Even in the state he was in right now, he would be able to kill Heahmund. Yet, he remained on his bed, sitting there useless as he had for almost two weeks now. He had never been a patient man and his body was healing way too slowly for his liking. Maybe, keeping Heahmund here was as much a punishment for the bishop as it was for him. And yet, there was something about the man that fascinated him, something he couldn't quite put into words. He had knelt in front of Ivar and washed the blood and grime from his legs and looked at him with such kindness, such deep-seated guilt, and remorse. No pity, though. Heahmund had never looked at him with pity.

“He conjured up demons and fallen angels to beguile us, and lead us into evil.”

“What is evil, hmm?” Maybe he was too much like his father, Ivar wondered. Ragnar had been curious. He had always wanted to learn. Ivar too always wanted to learn. His mind was his only weapon. The only weapon that set him apart from his brothers.

“The slaughter of the innocent.” He sounded so heartbroken as he said it but the accusation was clear.

“ _You_ slaughter when it suits you.” He scoffed.

“He who chooses to be heathen is not innocent!” There was so much fire in the eyes of the bishop as he looked at him now. This man had talked so much about this ‘Heaven’ and ‘Hell’ he believed in that Ivar wondered if there wasn’t a little bit of hellfire in the man’s eyes and if there was, he wondered what it meant. Was the bishop maybe not so pure of heart and faith as he led everyone to believe he was? “But I could show you the ways of God. I could bring you to salvation and to eternal life.” 

Now he sounded almost pleading as if he was truly worried about that thing the Christians called the soul. Ivar, however, did not even know if he had a soul. It certainly sometimes felt as if he did not have a heart. Eternal life. What a horrible thought that was. Forever stuck in this ailing, useless, agonized body. Something the bishop had said, however, struck him deeply. 

“You said … slaughtering the innocent is evil.”

“Yes.”

“And that I can’t possibly be innocent because I am a heathen. Just by the way I was born, I am not innocent and never was innocent.” He paused for a moment, thinking about what he wanted to say - _if_ he wanted to say it. The bishop, however, seemed to anticipate his next words judging by the way he cast his eyes to the floor. “So … In the eyes of your God, I deserved everything that happened to me then? Did I deserve being raped? Was this your God’s form of punishment for the sins I have committed just by being born a heathen? Was what your men did to me not evil then?”

“What my men did was wrong.” The answer came straight away. “Rape is always wrong.”

“You are not saying that I did not deserve it, though.”

“Nobody deserves something like that,” Heahmund said. “And I was appalled when I learned of the horrors you suffered during my absence.”

“Rape is evil then,” Ivar concluded calmly. 

There was no bite to his words. There was no reason for it. It had already happened. It was behind him. Sigurd had said the same. It was behind him. He needed to leave it behind him. And yet, not a night passed when he would not jolt awake from nightmares of his cell, from being pushed to the ground, unable to defend himself. The pain had not been the worst. No. He could deal with pain. It was the feeling of helplessness that kept him up at night. It was his utter defenselessness. It was knowing that he would not be able to do anything about it if it were to happen again. Sure, it took four men to keep him down but that was hardly a comfort. In a way, he was glad that Heahmund was here now. At least then he would not be alone in his little house. Not that this would stop anyone from coming into his house and causing him harm. Maybe he was being paranoid if he thought that someone from Kattegat would actually come into his house and hurt him and yet, he could not help it. He was looking at the people he had grown up around with suspicion and distrust these days. 

“Yes.”

“But torturing a man, breaking every bone in his crippled body, ripping out nails, cutting open flesh, strangling, beating, whipping, and almost drowning him is not evil?”

“You said the people of this town are afraid of you,” Heahmund quickly snapped back. “If I asked them they would certainly tell me that you deserved imprisonment. Sometimes torture is the only way to make people see the errors of their ways and get them to repent and lead better lives. It is a holy punishment from God.”

“People tell stories about other people,” Ivar replied snappishly. The truth hurt. He knew that Heahmund was right. If he were not Ragnar Lothbrok’s son- No. Even though he was Ragnar Lothbrok’s son, if the people of Kattegat would be able to decide about him without fearing the wrath of his brothers, they would imprison him too, locking him away inside a cage forever. Maybe he deserved it too for being so cruel. “People they don't know. Have never met. And yet they still curse them and tell lies about them. Isn't that true?”

“Yes.” Heahmund nodded. “People told lies about our savior.”

“Well, perhaps they tell lies about me as well.” It was hard to read the bishop’s face as he looked at him again with that same fire in his eyes. 

“Why would they tell lies about you? Are you not their prince? You said yourself the people of Kattegat are afraid of you. Why would they be afraid of you if the rumors about you weren’t true?”

Ivar chuckled again before he flung the furs back that were covering his legs. The good bishop was one of the very few people that did not cringe at the sight. Even Hvitserk and Sigurd usually looked away. 

“The people of Kattegat fear me because I am different. That is all, my dear bishop. I am not like them. I slither around on the ground and through the mud like a snake. The people don't trust what they do not understand, what is foreign to them. I was … _innocent_ ” He spat the word at the bishop before he covered his legs again. “before that journey. I had never killed another human before that journey. I was not allowed to participate in fights or raids. I would have been ballast for my strong brothers when they went into battle. I killed the other members of our party because my father told me so. I killed those guards because I wanted to protect myself. You talk about your God all day long. About how good he is, how he is the light, how he loves us all - even a cripple like me. And then, within a heartbeat, you tell me that he doesn't love me, can't possibly love me because I am a heathen, because I am not innocent. But I was, Priest. Before I was your prisoner - I was.”

“How would I know that you are not lying? How would I know that you are an honest man and that the fear of those people is without reason?”

“I never said it was without reason.” Ivar shrugged. “They say I am cruel and violent. All that is true, Bishop. But I am going to give you the chance to find out who I am.”

**-End of Chapter 7-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think, it makes my day <3 <3 <3


	8. Chapter 8

“Ivar, no.” 

Heahmund was surprised to hear one of the brothers outright deny Ivar something. So far he had been under the impression that the brothers were spoiling their youngest fledgling a little too much since his return from England. Of course, he had no idea what it had been like between the brothers before Ivar followed his father to England but he could guess that it had not been like it was now. Ivar’s captivity and his torture seemed to have changed a lot for the family. They were indulging him and his antics quite frequently, as far as Heahmund could tell, often barely batting an eye about what outrageous thing their brother would do or say. They allowed him to walk right over them at times - figuratively speaking, of course. Whenever Ivar’s temper would flare up - which it quite often did - they would bear his anger and his cruelty with calmness. Right now, however, Bjorn stood before his brother in the middle of a clearing in the forest, with crossed arms and the stance of a warrior and king. 

“You are too weak.”

“I am not weak!” Ivar’s response left his lips in a low hiss, a cat ready to strike if provoked further. Heahmund had had a front-row seat to what would happen if Ivar would get provoked too much and knew that it would often end in something being thrown or blood to be shed. In a way, he could understand the young Viking. It must be frustrating, living his life as he did, especially now that he seemed so reliant on other people to help him with the simplest things. For someone that was as independent as Ivar, this just had to be pure torture. “Stop treating me like a defenseless cripple!”

Heahmund had had a couple of weeks now to learn the language of the north men. It was a wild tongue they spoke in but he had always prided himself on being a quick learner. By now, he had a good enough grip of the language to understand what the brothers were saying, while he mostly acted as if he was none the wiser. Sometimes it was better to let the enemy think that you have no idea what is happening around you.

“I am not,” Bjorn groaned, clearly fed up with his little brother already. Heahmund could only imagine that Ivar was the type of little brother that had always followed his older brothers around, trying to do what they did. “You can't use your left hand!”

“I don't need my left hand!”

“Your injuries have not yet healed! You can barely breathe without sounding like an old mule!”

“I am fine!”

Let it be known that Ivar was nothing if not stubborn. He, dare he say it, respected the boy for that. Ivar was feisty. Despite his injuries, he had forced Heahmund to carry him out here where his brothers were training together to be a part of their training like he, apparently, used to be. Right now, the young prince was sitting on a barrel, frustrated with himself, his body, and the situation itself, while Heahmund was forced to stand by and watch the scene, pretending he did not understand what was being said. 

“You can’t even hold a bow and arrow!” 

“I can wield an ax or a sword just fine with one hand!”

“Ivar-”

“Bjorn!” The voice of Hvitserk cut the oldest of the sons of Ragnar off without warning. “Just … let him. We all know that he is not going to give up! Let him and then we’ll see.”

Ubbe and Bjorn both didn't seem to like the idea and yet they stepped back with a sigh and a shrug. Bjorn, however, pointed his sword at Hvitserk. “You train with him then.” He decided. “And if he gets hurt, you will bear the responsibility of caring for him.”

“A boar is a better nurse than Hvitserk,” Ivar scoffed, even though by all means he should keep his mouth shut so as to not jeopardize his very much fragile win.

“Quiet,” Hvitserk returned with a grin as he handed his brother the other sword he was holding. “Or I’ll put you on a raft and let you drift down the river.” 

Ivar grinned at his brother’s words and took the sword from him. Heahmund watched how he balanced it in his hand, how he tested out the weight and got a feel for the weapon. He could not quite help the twinge in his stomach at the sight. He had seen what Ivar could do with his bare hands and his teeth. For now, he was just glad to not be at the business end of that weapon.

“What about him?” Ubbe pointed at Heahmund with his sword and Heahmund gave his best impression of a man who didn't know that they were talking about him. “I’m not comfortable having this man around - in close proximity to weapons.”

“I watch him!” Sigurd quickly offered. “As long as Ivar is busy sparring with Hvitserk.” 

Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Bjorn exchanged surprised glances but Ivar scoffed and seemed pissed off by his brother’s gracious offer for some reason. Well, if Heahmund had learned one thing so far it was to not try and make sense of the Viking prince _or_ his relationships with his brothers. At times they were like cats and dogs, at other times they were a united front. Maybe that was normal. Heahmund himself had never been close enough to his own brothers to really know such a close brotherly bond. Especially Ivar’s relationship to Sigurd seemed a constant push and pull.

As Ivar motioned for him to step aside, Heahmund walked closer to the tree line and sat down at the foot of a tree so that he wouldn't be in the way while the brothers were sparring. He was, in fact, a little curious how well Ivar would be able to take his brother on in his weakened state. At first, he had been certain that a cripple like him would not be able to fight at all but Heahmund had quickly realized that although his legs were thin and weak, his upper body was anything but. Of course, during his weeks of captivity and starvation, he had lost quite a bit of strength that he seemed eager to regain now.

The brothers didn't say another word as Bjorn and Ubbe returned to their sparring. He had seen them fight before in battle, knew that they were skilled warriors, unpredictable in their actions and movements even. Ubbe moved like it was a dance sometimes, his legs soft and bendable, his feet light - which gave him an advantage against his bigger, stronger brother Bjorn who looked like a bear next to Ubbe. Bjorn was pure strength personified but he was slow because of it. Ubbe had learned from years of training with the other man how to outsmart him and that showed right now too.

Hvitserk grinned at his youngest brother as he approached him. Despite the grin on his face, Heahmund could tell that Hvitserk would not go easy on Ivar, that he would not baby him or make a joke out of it. He attacked Ivar with force and the boy quickly blocked his sword with one swift, well-trained move of his sword arm. Hvitserk recovered quickly and yet another block from Ivar had him staggering ever so slightly. Even while sitting down Ivar seemed in complete control of his body. He had never seen someone move like this while being handicapped like Ivar was with only one arm to use and what little strength was left in his upper body. It was truly impressive to watch the two brothers go at it, to see Ivar reacting lightning fast to his brother’s moves and parrying them seemingly with ease. 

Almost Heahmund expected Ivar to win this round but then Ivar’s luck turned as he was forced to parry a particularly hard blow from Hvitserk, his left hand going in to steady his right arm out of reflex, a jolt of pain flashing across his face, the shock that the impact sent through his arm and into his broken hand tipping him off balance as Ivar tried to counter his brother’s next move just as quickly. Before either one of them realized what was going on, Ivar was tipped over the edge of his barrel and slammed sideways into the grass, landing heavily on his right side, the wind knocked out of him for a second. Heahmund shot up from where he had been sitting, Bjorn and Ubbe stopped their fight but before anyone could say anything or do anything, Hvitserk went in for the attack again. As quickly as a snake going in for the kill, Ivar rolled onto his back and parried his brother’s attack so hard the Hvitserk dropped his sword. A second later, the tip of Ivar’s sword pressed into the Adam's apple of the older brother.

Hvitserk barked out a laugh before he pushed the sword away. With a content sigh, Hvitserk leaned down, grabbed Ivar under his armpits, and lifted him back onto the barrel as if he weighed nothing at all. Ivar was noticeably out of breath, his skin flushed and a fine sheen of sweat on his face. Ubbe was at Ivar’s side within a heartbeat but not to fret over his little brother but to grasp his face with both hands and squeeze it lightly as a sign of praise in a way only brothers would be allowed to do without losing a hand. As he pressed a kiss to Ivar’s head, though, the boy swatted at Ubbe as if he was but a fly flying around his head. Heahmund noticed the lopsided smile on the boy’s face that followed, though. 

He was deeply loved and he didn't even realize it. The thought gave the bishop pause. He had gained valuable information just from this interaction alone and Ivar had no clue about the fact that he had just handed Heahmund a sword.

※※※※※※※

“You seemed impressed, earlier,” Ivar murmured as he sat in that wooden bathtub that Heahmund had filled for him by his order. It was about time that Ivar bought himself a proper slave now that he no longer lived in the longhouse with his family. Bjorn said Lagertha would not mind him living there but Ivar could not even fathom the thought. Through the half-open window, cold air filtered into the room. It was getting cold inside but at least his bathtub stood close to the hearth and soon the nights would get warmer again.

Heahmund’s face was unreadable as he stared at him from his spot in the corner of the room. “I was. To be honest, I would not have thought that you could fight.”

“Because I am a cripple?”

“Yes.”

Ivar couldn't help but snort at this answer. It was refreshing to talk to someone who tried not to clad their opinions in pretty words to make him feel good. “At least you are honest, Your Grace.”

“Don't call me that.” The bishop hissed sharply as if he had just insulted his mother or his God. He was quite prickly, the bishop - but that made it only more fun for Ivar to tease and taunt him. There was not much else for him to do lately, after all. “It's just a joke to you but you know nothing about grace.”

Ivar leaned back in his bathtub again with a sigh as his answer to Heahmund’s response. It was dangerous to allow the Christian to remain unshackled but how was he supposed to help him into and out of the bathtub otherwise? Sure, he could have asked one of his brothers to help him but, for a reason he could not quite discern for himself, asking his brothers to help him bathe seemed much more humiliating than ordering the bishop to do so. “If you say so,” He smirked at last and then threw a cloth at the man that he had grabbed from a small table next to the bath. Hehamund caught it without blinking. “Wash my back, would you? I am quite flexible but, you see, I am a little handicapped right now.”

Heahmund scoffed but he walked over regardless, dipped the cloth in water, and began scrubbing his back dutifully. “Even with only one working hand, I don't believe for a second that you are in any way handicapped. I have seen you fight.”

“So, you liked what you saw?”

“No.” Heahmund shook his head. “I was worried about what you would be able to do with two working hands.”

“Ah,” Ivar hummed before allowing a chuckle to slip out through his teeth. “Now you are trying to flatter me. Sweet talking won’t work on me, Bishop.”

“I am doing nothing of that sort,” Heahmund replied stiffly and prickly as ever. “Why are you not asking one of your countless brothers to help you wash? Are you not afraid that I could slice your throat?”

“No,” Ivar huffed. “You are a Christian. You wouldn't do that. _I_ would do that. Plus … If you would … well, you might as well slit your own throat next. You will never escape this place alive if you harm me in any way.”

“That still does not answer my question.”

“You are my prisoner … you should not even be _allowed_ to ask questions but I am a merciful prince, am I not?” Heahmund looked at him with frozen eyes and tight lips. Another chuckle escaped him at that sour expression he was confronted with. “I can not stand my brothers hovering and fretting and treating me like a child. That is why I did not want them here to help me.”

“They love you dearly.”

“No,” The response came easily - perhaps more easily than it should. “No, they don't…” At Heahmund’s questioning gaze, Ivar made a throwaway motion with his right hand before explaining further. “They don't love me, Bishop. They pity me. That is all. Maybe they are even afraid of me. Sigurd used to be afraid of me. I killed another child when I was barely five years old. I didn't mean to … of course. It was an act of anger. They didn't allow me to play with them. My guardian, Floki, handed me their ball and when I wanted to throw it, another boy wanted to take it from me. Well ... Sigurd saw everything. After that, he refused to sleep in the same bed as me.” He laughed at last. “Fear is one thing, Bishop. Being feared, even by your own brothers, holds a certain power … but being pitied … There is nothing worse than being pitied. It's like daggers in my heart.”

“He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord; and that which he hath given will he pay him again.”

“This holy book of yours,” Ivar mocked. “Does it have a smart thing to say about everything?”

“About the important things,” Heahmund smirked.

“Say Bishop, what does the bible say about sinners then? Or about heathens like me?”

“For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Jesus our Lord.” He was surprised that Heahmund actually humored him in giving him an answer. 

“When you took me to your chambers to clean my wounds - after you saw what happened to me,” Ivar began quietly. He hated himself and his wicked, poisoned mind that he could not leave it behind him, that he had to bring it up again and again. He should be able to just forget about it and move on as if nothing had happened. What did it matter anyway? It was in the past. It was like Sigurd told him. It was behind him. Yet, Sigurd knew about it, and just that alone made his stomach churn and his heart race. His secret was no longer only his. He should have let Bjorn kill Heahmund. He should have found a way to silence Sigurd. Now he was living with the constant fear that the truth would come out eventually. “Was it pity that forced your hand or guilt?”

“It was mercy,” Heahmund replied. “I returned to my duties at the abbey and found that I have made a grave mistake of leaving it in the first place, of trusting that my men would be honorable and just in their duties. I may not have committed the act yet it was my responsibility what happened at the abbey.”

“And now you want to atone for your sin of negligence in serving me freely without slitting my throat?”

“No.” Heahmund paused shortly as he was rubbing the cloth over his back. The wounds that his men had beaten into his skin had not completely healed yet. They still hurt horribly where the skin had been ripped off of his back. His back would soon be a minefield of scars and not the sort of scars a warrior could be proud to show off. Sure, he had survived torture but he had only fallen into the hands of torturers because he had been naive and stupid and trusted his father’s judgment. “I am not here out of my own free will and I will never be your servant, Prince Ivar. I am a man of God. I am His servant and I will serve no other man.”

“But you still hope to convert me,” Ivar grinned. “In fact, you hope that I will allow you to build a church and convert the whole of Kattegat.”

“If that is what the Lord wants me to do, I will do so.”

“You are in the land of the old Gods now, Bishop. Your God has no say in what happens here.” There was a knock on the door to his house and Ivar’s whole body stiffened without his consent even though he was aware that it could be no one except his brothers or Floki who would come to visit him. No one else in Kattegat had a reason to visit him. He knew that there had been a small celebration after his return while he had been battling his fever. Lagertha had sacrificed a goat for him, apparently, and the whole of Kattegat had prayed for his recovery but he knew that none of that had been honest. He had no friends in Kattegat except for Floki and Helga. “I have not drowned or been killed, Ubbe!” He called out with a scoff.

The door was opened and instead of one of his brothers, it was Lagertha who walked into the house as if it was her right to infringe on his privacy like this. She didn't bat an eye as she found him in the bathtub and neither did Ivar.

“Ivar,” She greeted him with a deliberately soft smile as their eyes met across the room. “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this. I can return later.”

“You have seen me as a baby.” Ivar rolled his eyes at her pretend modesty. Lagertha always liked to proclaim that they were all one big happy family, after all. “I doubt my nudity bothers you. It certainly does not bother me.” Even though that was a lie. At least his legs were underneath the water. “What brings you here, Lagertha? Or shall I call you ‘my Queen’ now after you killed my mother and usurped the throne?”

Lagertha had the gall to look pleased with herself as she stepped closer and sat down on one of his chairs with so much grace as if she had been born into nobility and not the daughter of a farmer.

“I don't think that this would be necessary, dear Ivar,” She said sweetly. “As you said, I saw you as a baby. I regard you as my family. I came here because you did not come to me. I understand, of course, that you are still recovering so I am not holding a grudge against you, dear boy. I wanted to see how you are faring now. I heard about the priest you brought back home with you.” For just a moment, her eyes flickered to Heahmund who was still kneeling behind him but had apparently forgotten his task.

“So, you came because you wanted a look at my pet priest?”

“No,” Lagertha chuckled. “I was just surprised to hear about that. I guess I shouldn't have been. You are Ragnar’s son, after all, and more so than your brothers, it would seem in some aspects. Your father brought home a priest too a long time ago.”

“I know.” Ivar rolled his eyes. “Saint Athelstan.”

Lagertha laughed. “I think it's safe to assume your priest has been carved from a much different tree than poor Athelstan. I heard he is a warrior-”

“Lagertha” He interrupted her. “What is it that you want from me? The water is getting cold and I am getting tired. Could you make it quick? This poor injured cripple would like to sleep.”

She humored him with another smile. “I came to you,” She began quietly. “Because I wanted to make peace with you.”

“I did not know we were at war.”

“I killed your mother, Ivar,” She then stated simply and reached out to grab his good hand that was holding onto the rim of the wooden tub so he would not ball it into a fist. He wanted to pull away but didn't want to appear weak either. She took his hand in hers and squeezed gently. “I am not ashamed to confess to you, Ivar, that I hated your mother for stealing away my beloved Ragnar, for stealing away my home from me. I swore revenge when I left all those years ago with Bjorn. Now I have taken it and it felt like being freed of a great burden. So I would understand, Ivar, if one day, you would want to take revenge for your mother on me. 

I will not go down without a fight, though, and I told your brothers as much. However, I want to tell you that I am deeply sorry for your loss even though I have caused it. You loved your mother deeply and she loved you the same. She knew that day would come, as did I. She accepted her fate. I hated your mother for taking what was mine - but I loved her all the same for giving Ragnar his sons. That was something I could not do. I loved your father with all my being. I still love him with a burning passion, dear Ivar. No man will ever live up to Ragnar Lothbrok. And the same I loved your father, I love all his sons. Even you. Even now as you are plotting my murder. All I can ask of you, Ivar, is to not go against your brothers. Never. I would never make the mistake of underestimating you, Ivar. Alone, you might become a destroyer of kingdoms, a conqueror but with your brothers at your side … Oh … The whole world might just bow to the sons of Ragnar. Don't throw that away for petty revenge.”

“Are you begging for your life, Lagertha?” He hissed in response and still left his hand in hers. “You stole my kingdom away from me.”

“I did not,” She smiled. “You are still Prince Ivar. Your brothers are still princes. Bjorn will follow me on my throne as he should have followed his father. Knowing Bjorn, however, he will soon be whisked away by the winds and the sea again, though. He has no interest in ruling. Ubbe, on the other hand, would make a fine King, don't you agree?”

“Ubbe is soft.”

“Ubbe is a farmer at heart, Ivar,” She laughed. “Just like your father was. Ubbe will lead with a firm hand but with calmness and kindness. The people will love him.”

“And what about me?”

“I imagine that you will bring glory to Kattegat. You will set sail again with your brothers and you will win kingdoms and land and allegiances for Kattegat. Don't limit yourself to this town, Ivar. We both know that you have no interest in ruling Kattegat. And would it not bring you much more satisfaction to become a war hero, a great warrior like your father than sitting on your ass on a throne all day long? Would you not like to prove those wrong who thought that a boy like you would never fight in battle?”

“You are sweet-talking me,” Ivar hummed without bite. “That seems to be a theme today.”

“I am doing nothing of that sort,” Lagertha laughed. “I’m just telling you what I see in your future. She leaned forward then, cupped his face, and pressed a kiss to his forehead in a way only a mother would. Her lips were burning his skin. “And now, you should sleep and regain your strength. You will need it soon.”

“What for?”

“We are going to Uppsala soon,” Lagertha smiled. “And I want you to join us there.”

“You know I can not make that trip,” Ivar muttered. “Last time Bjorn carried me all the way but I was seven then. You can’t expect any of my brothers to carry me all the way up that mountain.”

“I am not,” Lagertha grinned and pointed at the priest. “But I see you have a fine new mule.” She said with a wink and startled a laugh out of Ivar as she left it at that. “I am glad that you are back home, Ivar. I am glad that you are alive and getting better each day. Your father loved you dearly, Ivar. He would have given his life for you. It would have broken his heart to see that he has been betrayed and that his plan had caused harm to his son.”

※※※※※※※

They sat in the light of the fire inside the hearth when Heahmund could no longer hold back the question that had been burning on his mind ever since the queen had first spoken about it. “What is Uppsala?” 

His former captive sat huddled in furs and blankets on his bed. Heahmund was still unbound and the fact that Ivar did not think it necessary to have him tied up again drove him up the wall. Ivar knew, as much as Heahmund did, that Heahmund would not leave Kattegat alive if he hurt Ivar. It was just like Ivar had said earlier. While Ivar had been a very real threat and always remained shackled while being in his cell, it was clear that Ivar did not consider him a threat or in any way dangerous to his person. This thought frustrated Heahmund to no end, of course. After all, he prided himself on being one of the finest warriors the catholic church had to offer. He had never been defeated in war and if Aethelwulf had not told him to flee and get back to his prisoner, he would have either died on the battlefield or been victorious against Ivar’s brothers.

“Ah,” Ivar breathed out, a soft chuckle swiftly following. “so you _do_ understand our language. I was wondering.” A Cheshire grin lightened up his face, his eyes sparkling with unbridled amusement. “I would have acted as if I would not understand the language too.” In fact, and they both knew that Ivar had done exactly that while at King Ecbert’s house.

“So?” Heahmund asked in return. “What is it then? Uppsala.”

“It's our most holy site,” Ivar replied calmly and with a reverence in his voice that Heahmund had not yet heard from the mouth of the young heathen prince. “It is located on a steep mountain in the land of the swedes. We go there every nine years to honor the gods, to celebrate the spring equinox, and bring forth sacrifices.”

“What kind of sacrifices?”

Ivar studied his face and his eyes were burning his skin as he did. His gaze was oddly intense every time he would look at Heahmund, his looks burning like hellfire. He could always tell when Ivar was looking at him without actually seeing him look. In his nightmares, the young Viking was still covered in the blood of his enemies, grinning maniacally at him. 

“Goats,” Ivar then said. “chickens, pigs … people.”

“ _People_?”

“Yes,” Ivar shrugged but Heahmund could see that he was fighting an amused grin as Heahmund had, apparently, given him the desired reaction. “People. It is a great honor.”

His stomach turned at the sight. Depictions of Hell flashed through his mind at those words, tales of primal pagan tribes in the highlands resurfaced with vigor and against his will. “To be slaughtered like an animal can hardly be called a great honor!”

“They are not being _slaughtered_.” Ivar, unsurprisingly, almost sounded offended by his words. “And no one is forced to do it either. Those who get sacrificed go willingly and out of their own free will. Anyone can do it. Who knows? Maybe one of my brothers volunteers this year? Maybe I will? Though I doubt that the Gods would accept me as an offer. I am merely a cripple. I am not a great warrior or important king or particularly pure of heart. I have not made a name for myself yet.”

“You speak like you _want_ to get chosen as a sacrifice.” His lips curled in disgust at the mere thought. That poor child. Ivar was still so very young. He could not have seen more than seventeen winters and yet he spoke with such conviction about the honor it would be to be slaughtered for his Gods. With every passing day here in Kattegat, Heahmund would doubt more and more that Ivar the boneless could still be saved from his pagan ways, so rooted was he in his appalling beliefs and rituals. What a horror to see such a sharp mind poisoned by this devilish nonsense.

“As I said, it is a great honor,” Ivar repeated stubbornly, a small shrug lifting his shoulders briefly. So freely he spoke about death and dying that Heahmund wondered if he even had a concept of it. A true concept and not the lies he had been fed by the people around him for all his life. Did this boy even understand that his soul would be tortured in Hell for all eternity for his wretchedness? “It would be an honor if I was chosen to be sacrificed. But, as I said, this is probably not going to happen. I have nothing to offer to the Gods.”

“Is your life not enough?” Heahmund hissed. “Does your life alone hold so little value to you and your people?”

“Ah,” Ivar smiled and leaned his head back against the wall - that same cocky, condescending smile he would often pay his brothers. “You don't get it yet. But you will sooner or later. Be honest, dear Bishop, would you have not sacrificed me to your God when I would have converted to your faith?”

“Of course, not!” Heahmund hissed with righteous indignation. “We do not sacrifice people!”

“But Prince Aethelwulf would have wanted me crucified, isn’t that right?” Once again, Ivar’s eyes burned into his own eyes, a gaze so intense that it would serve to make lesser men crumble. “I am not stupid, dear Bishop. I know that converting to your silly God would neither have saved my life nor my soul.”

“That would have been _his_ decision to make, whether I would have agreed with it or not.”

“So, if your prince would have decided to sacrifice me, that would have been fine by you?”

“It would not have been a _sacrifice_. Not in the sense you heathens sacrifice other people to your Gods.”

“It would have been a punishment then?”

“It would have been an act of mercy, Ivar. Of _grace_. Allowing you to be cleansed of your mortal sin before death, to suffer like our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ has suffered for all of humanity. You would have become pure again and God would have taken you in His arms.”

Ivar looked at him with a mixture of amusement and curiosity - almost like Hehamund was nothing more than a puzzle he was keen on solving. “My Gods don't care about my sins,” He then said with another small shrug. “They gave me this body to enjoy it, they gave me this life to enjoy it and worship them. There is no such thing as sin. You Christians seem to drown in all those rules and limitations.”

“The human mind needs rules.”

“You will see what I am talking about when we go to Uppsala, Priest. You will understand.”

**-End of Chapter 8-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think, it really makes my day <3 <3 <3


	9. Chapter 9

“What do you plan on doing to Ecbert and his ilk?” Lagertha’s voice was sweet as honey as she sat in her throne and looked at her son in the throne next to hers. She could have gotten rid of it by now but she had kept it around for her son. Bjorn appreciated the gesture greatly and yet the thought of being a leader to the people of Kattegat sometimes filled him with unease. His father had hated the crown and the power had corrupted him. At least that was how Bjorn had always felt about his father’s success. As soon as his father became Jarl, it seemed that the happy days of their life as a family had truly been over and lost. 

“I have not yet decided,” He replied calmly. The cup in his hand felt heavy and he was horribly tired. His heart was already at sea again but he knew also that it would be a long while until he and his men would be able to return to the Mediterranean Sea. And still, his dreams were filled with the mysterious places that he had not yet discovered. “We will have to seek retribution, of course, for what has been done to Ivar. Prince Aethelwulf has crossed our father, he has broken the pact King Ecbert made with Ragnar and we cannot let this slide. He has to pay for this crime in blood as do his sons.”

Lagertha sighed but nodded solemnly. “I know Ecbert.” Bjorn snorted at her words but his mother seemed more amused by his reaction than offended as she took a sip from her own cup. “He was a good man when I met him. A good _king_. I am sad that things changed so much but I agree regardless. His son has to pay and he, as the king and as his father, needs to take responsibility for the crime as well. He should have supervised Ivar’s departure personally, should have made sure personally that the son of another king, that a prince, would return home safely and not get whisked away by his treacherous son. Ecbert is an old man, however. Death is not the punishment for a crime of negligence, I would assume. He trusted his son. That was a mistake. One he can ponder about in captivity until his last day.”

“And Aethelwulf?”

“He will fight you if he is not a coward,” His mother said. “I met him when your father and I were in England and building up that settlement. He seemed war-hungry to me. Maybe he will die in battle. If not, he will die at your hands. You are my second in command, Bjorn, my right-hand man, my general. You will be king of Kattegat eventually - if you _want_ to. If not, say it now and Ubbe will take your place when the time arrives.”

“You know that my desires lay elsewhere, Mother.”

“And I will not keep you from following them.” She smiled and lifted her cup in a silent toast before she decided to change the topic in a rather unexpected direction. “What do you think about that priest that Ivar wanted to bring back? Isn’t it peculiar that your brother allows him to remain unchained at his side? Does Ivar not fear the man lashing out?”

“No,” He sighed. “Ivar fears … nothing. He never has and now … He is changed. What he lived through in England changed him. I find my brother … quieter these days. More solemn. He doesn't wish to speak about his time in captivity and while this is understandable, it seems odd. I can not quite put my finger on it, though. Sigurd too acts strange around Ivar.”

“Stranger than usual?” 

“He constantly offers him his help.”

“That is indeed strange,” Lagertha laughed. “I know only a few things in life to be true, Bjorn. The sea is blue, the mountains high, the Gods have a plan, and Sigurd will always fight with Ivar no matter how petty the reason might be.”

“Yes,” Bjorn chuckled. “Perhaps finding him like this changed Sigurd too. I know it changed me and it definitely changed Ubbe and Hvitserk. Ivar seemed strangely invincible, in spite of his legs. Seeing him so weak, seeing him on the verge of dying for such a long time, made me realize that I could actually lose him, any of them, in a moment and would be unable to do anything about it. I realize now that I have not always been the best brother to those four - especially Ivar.”

“You still have time to guide those little wolves,” Lagertha hummed. “They are still all so very young. You have not told me what you think about the priest, though. Do you trust him?”

“Of course, not!” He scoffed.

“You trusted Aethelstan.”

“This man is nothing like Aethelstan, though.”

“I find it peculiar that Ivar brought him with him, just like your father brought home Aethelstan.” As he looked at his mother now, her gaze was directed forward but not focused on anything. He wondered if she still saw the life she had been living with Ragnar in this hall in quiet moments like this. He certainly did. When he would be here and it was quiet, he could still hear his father’s roaring laughter or the squeaking of his little brothers as he was playing with them. He even heard Gyda’s voice sometimes when he was sitting here, singing like she used to. “When I talked to Ivar yesterday, I saw a lot of Ragnar in him. Maybe more than I see in the rest of you boys. Ubbe looks like him and you have your father’s eyes but Ivar … there is something in his eyes that reminds me painfully of your father. Keep an eye on him. We don't want him to lose his path, to fall prey to the same madness your father succumbed to after Aethelstan’s death.”

※※※※※※※

The priest’s eyes were like crystals as they stared at him over the board game between them sharply. The man attentive and calculating as always. Ivar could not help the feeling that he was being studied - it was probably true. Just like Ivar was studying the priest, the priest was studying him. Studying to find weaknesses, to find vulnerability.

“Say, priest, did you enjoy watching your men torture me?” He asked into the silence of the room to tip Heahmund off balance, perhaps. “They did it in the name of your God so it must have brought you joy.”

“I don't enjoy the suffering of others. Unlike you.” Of course, Heahmund was eager to prove that he was not that easily irritated by his questions. He remained calm, took one of his bishops, and moved it across the board, knocking one of Ivar’s pawns off.

“I admit, I do enjoy seeing my enemies suffer,” Ivar laughed, enjoying the grimace his words provoked on the good bishop’s face. “That's half the fun of war, right?”

“But you have not yet fought a battle of your own. You said it yourself.”

“I will,” Ivar shrugged. “We are going to go back to England when spring arrives, after Uppsala. We will hunt Prince Aethelwulf down and King Ecbert. Who knows? Maybe we will do to his sons what your men did to me.”

He watched the face of the bishop become hard as stone at these words before Ivar made his next move on the board, closing in dangerously to Heahmund’s queen. “Would you want anyone to suffer that pain? Don't you understand it better than most people now?”

“Everything is fair in love and war, is it not?”

“Not everything.”

“Your men,” Ivar said bitterly even though he was doing his best to keep his voice light and unbothered. The truth was that there was a fire burning in the pit of his stomach as he spoke. “They said it was revenge. Revenge for all the women and girls who have been raped by heathens like me. Heathens, who came to their villages and killed everyone and burned everything down. Do you think it is fair to take revenge on me for something I did not even do? Something I _could not_ even do?”

“Of course, not.”

“And yet they did. Your precious Christian friends.”

“And they paid the price for it.” He offered Heahmund a toothy grin in response that never quite reached his eyes. 

“I like our conversations, Priest,” Ivar said at last. “I guess, however, you don't enjoy them as much as I do.”

“It is hard to enjoy a conversation when you are someone’s prisoner - especially when that someone is a heathen.”

“You hurt my feelings, dear Bishop.” Ivar mocked and put his hand to his chest in mock pain to drive home the point but the bishop just pulled his upper lip back in a short sneer like a dog. “I enjoyed our conversations when I was _your_ prisoner. Well, mostly, at least. Then again, I have always been a man with an open mind, interested to learn and hear about other cultures and even religions - no matter how wrong they might be. It is amusing.”

“I do not need to have an open mind for false beliefs and false gods when I already know the truth.”

“Yes, yes, of course. But how do you know that it is the truth? How could you possibly know?”

“Your mother was killed by the Queen?” Heahmund deflected and Ivar huffed in response. 

“ _Lagertha_ ,” He all but hissed the name like a curse and noticed how Heahmund’s eyes lit up at the sound. He wondered if the bishop had already fallen for that murderous harlot’s spell. Many men seemed to fall for her. “Yes. She killed my beautiful mother in cold blood.”

“And you let her get away with it.”

“For now, yes.” And the decision tasted bitter on his tongue, his stomach turned at the thought of not avenging his mother. What would his father think about all of this? What would his mother want him to do? “I have more important things on my mind. Lagertha … she can wait. It is better to lull her into a false sense of security anyway. I will strike someday and she will not see it coming. You thought she was my mother, did you not?” He then turned back to the bishop with an amused little grin.

“I did,” Heahmund shrugged. 

“She was Ragnar's first wife, a famous shield-maiden.”

“Do you hate her?”

“Hate is such a strong word,” Ivar chuckled. Heahmund’s brows raised in surprise at his answer. “Maybe I do. Although, I understand her reasoning. I must admit, I would have done the same thing as she did. However, I think that her anger should have been directed at Ragnar. _He_ was the one who was married when he met my mother. He betrayed Lagertha. My mother did nothing of that sort.”

“And still you say you understand her reasoning.”

“I never said it was logical, though. Love is rarely reasonable, my dear Bishop.”

“That is very wise for-”

“A heathen?”

“Someone as young as you are.”

Ivar allowed an honest laugh to slip out at that and noticed with surprise how the corners of Heahmund’s mouth twitches as well. "Careful now, Priest,” He said, waving his queen at him before placing it on the board and checkmating him. “It seems almost like you are growing fond of little old me."

※※※※※※※

His brothers were at the hunting cabin again. Without him, for the first time, it seemed. He knew that Bjorn wanted to go back to the Mediterranean sea and discover new places that their people could only dream of discovering but he had put all of this on hold for him and for their thirst for revenge. After Uppsala, they would gather their forces once more. Already King Harald and his brother had agreed to follow them to England again. Ivar’s wounds were healing, much slower than he wanted them to, though. Patience had never been his strong suit.

Bishop Heahmund, surprisingly, didn't bitch or moan as he carried him like a mule into the hills above Kattegat. He wasn’t his slave but he might very well be just that. Maybe he should make him his slave. That was what everyone seemed to expect of him anyway. Then again, Ivar enjoyed his company too much to reduce the proud bishop to something like that. His brother couldn't understand his reasoning and Ivar couldn't either sometimes. Maybe his actions didn't make much sense to his brothers and he couldn't deny that they didn't make much sense to him either. And still … A long time ago, his father had taken a young monk from Lindisfarne and brought him home without knowing why he did so. Ragnar had followed his guts. Was it so wrong for Ivar to do the same thing?

“Faster, Donkey!” He mocked the Bishop and smacked his thigh as much as he could reach, with an amused cackle if only to annoy the poor Christian. Heahmund didn't disappoint as he growled at him like a rabid dog. He could already see the cabin as his prisoner spoke up.

“Why are you meeting your brothers so far outside of Kattegat? Is there something you need to discuss that you cannot talk about in the town?”

“Not particularly,” Ivar huffed. “We always met there in the past. Just the five of us - well, four, mostly. Bjorn was gone half the time when I grew up. It is a place just for us, you know? Do you have siblings, Bishop?”

“I was the sixth son of a minor noble,” Heahmund replied dutifully. Talking to Heahmund was sometimes like pulling teeth but today he seemed rather talkative. “So yes, I do know what it is like to have brothers - older brothers, even though my brothers were already men when I was born. I was a late gift in my father’s life.”

“My own father was driven by his endless search for glory,” Ivar replied quietly. “And by the wish to have many sons as the Gods promised him so long ago.”

“Was that why your father left Lagertha?”

“Oh no,” Ivar laughed. “You misunderstand, dead Bishop! _Lagertha_ left him. Bjorn once told me that my mother came to Kattegat, pregnant with Ubbe. My father panicked. He was not able to come to a decision - wanted to keep them both. So, Lagertha decided for him. I respected her for that. Had I been in her shoes, I would not have stayed with him either. It is true, though, that my father never stopped loving her but my mother was the woman who gave him his sons. I do not know how he felt about her, in the end. Many say that my mother was a witch and that she bewitched him.”

“And what do you think?”

“That it does not matter whether she was a witch or not.” He replied with a shrug. “Bewitched or not … It was my mother’s destiny to give sons to the great Ragnar Lothbrok and she fulfilled that destiny.”

“And do you think your mother was happy because of that … achievement?”

“Does it matter?” Ivar sighed. “My mother has not been happy for a long time. She did not like it in Kattegat. She did not like the people. The people did not like her and my father was gone for many years either at sea or waging war or … who knows where. I know how she must have felt. The people of Kattegat never liked me either. My mother was a famous princess, did you know that?”

“No.”

“She was the daughter of the legendary shieldmaiden Brunhilde and of Sigurd who slew the dragon Fafnir. My brother Sigurd is named after him because he was born with the image of the slain dragon in his eye. I don't know if my mother was a witch, Bishop, but I do know that she had visions of the future and they almost always came true.”

“Almost?”

That drew a small snicker from his throat. “She predicted that I would drown in the storm on my way to England with my father.”

“What other visions did she have that came true?”

“She told my father that Sigurd would be born with the image of the lindworm in his eye that her father had slain,” Ivar replied. “Shortly after my brother’s birth, there was a raid on our town and my mother needed to flee. My father returned home and managed to fight back with the help of Lagertha and her shieldmaiden. After that, my mother told him that he needed to delay sleeping with her for three days otherwise she would give birth to a monster next. My father did not heed her warning and I was born deformed.”

“That does not make you a monster, though.”

“You are too kind, Bishop,” Ivar huffed. “I think that you will soon change your mind about me when we go back to England. My father said to me that people will always underestimate me because of my legs. I would advise you to not make the same mistake, your Grace - for your own good.”

“I would never make that mistake, Prince Ivar.” 

He snorted quietly as they arrived at the cabin. The door was ajar as Heahmund approached quietly and he could hear the voices of his brothers from inside, apparently deeply lost in conversation with one another. A part of him felt oddly left out - a feeling that had followed him around for as long as he could remember. 

“I am worried,” He heard Sigurd say. “After everything, he’s been through, I mean … He’s not the same anymore. He lived through the unspeakable and came back from it but still. Ivar had always been unstable at the best of times. No one can tell what he might possibly do now.”

Dread. Cold dread settled into his bones at the sound of Sigurd’s words. A fury as hot as the fires in the forges of Muspelheim filled his heart.

“He just needs time, Sigurd,” Ubbe responded behind the door.

“Of course, he needs time!” Sigurd snapped back at their older brother. “But he’s barely leaving his house and spends all his time with that priest - the man who caused him all that pain! That can not be good, Ubbe! I say we kill the priest. It would be better for Ivar to make that cut and move on from what happened to him!”

“Let me down!” He hissed at the priest and, to his credit, Heahmund did not hesitate for a moment to lower Ivar to the ground. Within seconds, Ivar had pushed the door open harshly and crawled into the house. Sigurd sat by the fire and Ivar made a beeline towards him, ignoring his brothers as they called out to him in surprise. Instead, he slithered towards Sigurd, lightning-fast, and pulled the chair out from under him to get Sigurd on his level. His brother slammed into the ground and Ivar was on top of him right away, grabbing the ax from Sigurd’s belt and pressing the blade against his brother’s throat.

“I told you,” Ivar hissed, fuming with anger as his brother’s scared eyes stared back at him, the snake taunting Ivar to do it, to go through with it. “I told you I would kill you if you told anyone. I might break a bone, Sigurd, but I can never break a promise!” He pressed the blade harder against Sigurd’s throat until it nicked his brother’s skin and drew forth the first drop of blood from his veins.

“I did not say anything!” Sigurd hissed through gritted teeth, smart enough not to move against Ivar, smart enough not to struggle against him or try to fight him off. 

“Ivar!” Ubbe yelled. “By Thor’s beard, what are you doing?”

Ubbe was pulling him back from Sigurd but Ivar lashed out at Ubbe next and managed to slice his pants with Sigurd’s ax, cutting his brother’s skin and making Ubbe jump away from him in surprise. Ubbe pressed his hand to the cut and even though it was shallow, soon blood was discoloring his pants. “Leave me be, Ubbe!” He yelled back at his big brother, spittle flying everywhere as he did. “This is between me and him! I’m gonna kill him!”

He was a feral beast, snarling and growling at his brothers as they stood around him, staring at him as if he had lost his mind. His heart was racing in his chest. “Ivar” Bjorn’s voice cut through the cabin like a knife. His big brother stood in the door, Heahmund behind him, watching the scene with unbridled curiosity. “Drop the ax. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Ivar snarled at him but he knew that he was outnumbered, knew that he was in no condition to fight yet, knew that his brothers would get the jump on him if he tried again to kill Sigurd. Ubbe was still pressing his hand against the bleeding cut in his leg and for the first time, Ivar felt shame and guilt flood his system as he grunted like a petulant child and slammed the ax down into the wood of the floor before he dragged himself away from Sigurd and closer to the fire instead. He didn't want to look at his brothers, didn't want to see the pity or the disgust in their eyes now that they knew his deepest secret, his darkest shame. His brothers would never look at him the same way again. He knew that. He was a damaged, broken, little thing in their eyes, barely a man. Not only had he not been able to bed Margrethe, they now knew that other men had pushed him down and fucked him like a common whore. He could never look at them again.

“I did not say anything,” Sigurd said again, quieter this time. His brother surprised him as he moved to sit next to him and grabbed his hand in comfort. “I did not say anything,” He promised again. “I would never.”

“You told them about Margrethe,” He hissed and glared at Sigurd. Was that shame ghosting over his brother’s face? 

“What did Sigurd not tell us?” Bjorn asked, his voice booming and serious, not allowing any more bullshit. Not that Ivar cared.

Sigurd pressed his lips into a hard, thin line. He didn't say anything, just looked at Ivar and grabbed his hand harder. It was a strange comfort to have his brother by his side like this. He had never thought it possible that Sigurd would be a source of comfort for him. 

“Ivar!” Ubbe thundered, sitting down on the chair that Ivar had pulled out from underneath Sigurd, pressing the hand on his wound with gritted teeth. “Cut the crap! What did Sigurd not tell us?”

He couldn't speak. There was a noose around his neck, pulling, pulling, pulling. He was suffocating. 

“Ivar!”

“The guards,” Bishop Heahmund’s voice was like thunder roaring across the sky as he spoke up. Ivar’s heart stopped at the sound. “While I was gone to meet and report to Prince Aethelwulf, they defiled your brother. I came across the scene on my return to Lindisfarne. You killed them during your attack and rescue of your brother.”

A heavy silence settled over the hunting cabin - the place where Ivar had made his best memories growing up. The place where he was like his brothers, where he was normal, where he was praised for his hunting skills, where he was useful. Now, that the truth was out in the open, he felt like all of those things had been stripped away from him, leaving him naked and alone out in the cold. His shoulders sagged without his consent and he quickly withdrew his hand from Sigurd so he wouldn't feel how much his fingers were trembling. He should throw his ax at Heahmund. He should strike the bishop down. He should scream and shout in anger, attack his brothers, draw blood, maime, and maul. He couldn't move, though. He could barely breathe. His heart was no longer beating. Maybe the world had just ended. Ragnarök had come but not with the promised spectacle but in complete and utter silence.

His world was shattered once more by the roar that tore from Bjorn’s throat and the sound of a mighty fist breaking a nose. He almost expected pain to shoot through his own face and it took him a moment to realize that not he had been the target of the attack. He lifted his head to see how Bjorn started pummeling the bishop. Bjorn Ironside was a mighty warrior, he was strong and capable and infamous - and he was beating down on the bishop like he was just another enemy on the battlefield, relentless and ready to kill the man. The bishop, however, took the beating. Ivar knew that he was capable of fighting back, that he was a great warrior himself, that he had fought against his brothers in England - but he didn't. He took each punch as Bjorn had pushed him to the ground and kneeled over him and every time Bjorn’s fist hit the man, it was like thunder clapping on the horizon, it was like Thor slamming down Mjolnir against iron. 

“Bjorn!” Ubbe called out and grasped his brother’s wide shoulders. “Bjorn, stop! He has had enough!”

“Let me kill him, Ubbe!” Bjorn growled. Never had Ivar seen him like this. “He deserves that!”

“He is _Ivar’s_ prisoner!” Ubbe hissed. “It is on _him_ to decide what happens to him! It is on Ivar to decide if he dies or not!”

And just like that, Bjorn stopped and got up from the ground with a deep groan. “He will be put in a cage,” Bjorn decided with a low hiss. “Like the animal he is.”

“No.” Ivar heard his own voice say. “Nothing like this. No.”

“Ivar!” Hvitserk called out. He had been standing in the corner this entire time, watching the scene unfold, dumbfounded as he was most times. “He deserves it! He deserves death! We should have crucified him as we had the chance!”

“Ivar is right” Sigurd came to his defense. “He has to decide. If he decided that the bishop remains by his side, you need to respect that. All of you.” He had never hated Sigurd more than at that moment. He had never loved Sigurd more than at that moment. His brother had never taken his side before. His brother had never defended him before. He hated him for it. He loved him for it. 

※※※※※※※

“You could have fought back, you know?” Ivar asked him, his voice uncharacteristically quiet as he did, his touch uncharacteristically gentle as he dragged the cloth over his abused face and wiped away the blood. “You did not need to take Bjorn’s anger without fighting back.” Heahmund was honestly surprised that the young Viking was not unleashing his fury on him for spilling his secret. Instead, he had gone back to his house with Heahmund, sat down with him at the small table in the middle of the room near the hearth, and started cleaning his wounds. By all means, he should be raging and raving. Heahmund knew that he had had no right to tell his secret and yet, Ivar did not seem angry with him. He was quieter since it all went down. The quiet before the storm, perhaps. Maybe he was lulling Heahmund into a false sense of security here.

“I know,” His voice was raspy as he spoke and his face hurt at the slightest bit of movement. His nose had cracked under one of Bjorn's punches, his lips were left split and bloody and his left eye was already swelling. In a way, he thought he probably deserved that. “Your brother’s anger was just, as is your pain. I will take it as that is God’s will. He won’t put anything on me that I cannot bear.”

“I believed that too,” Ivar said quietly. “About my Gods. That they would not put anything on me that I cannot bear but right now I am not too sure about that anymore. I do not know if I can bear what happened. I do not know if I can bear that my brothers know about it now.”

“Maybe you would find strength in God.”

Ivar breathed out a chuckle at that and looked at him with mischief sparkling in his impossibly blue eyes. Lightning trapped in a crystal once more, eyes kissed by the sea. Not for the first time, Heahmund thought that. Not for the first time, Heahmund felt a pull towards the other man - his darkest sin, his deepest desire, his greatest flaw. 

“You never give up, Bishop, do you?”

A knock at the door of Ivar’s house made the young man flinch back from his task. Whoever was on the other side didn't wait to be allowed in and revealed themselves to be Ivar’s brother Ubbe as he opened the door and encroached on Ivar’s carefully crafted territory. Ivar, however, didn't react with anger to this. He cast his eyes down like a child that was ashamed. Ubbe hovered for a moment in the door before he took another step forward and closed the door. His eyes darted between Ivar and Heahmund.

“What do you want, Ubbe?”

The man didn't speak for another long moment before he cleared his throat awkwardly and then took another step towards them. “Is it true, Bishop Heahmund, that you punished the men who did this to my brother?”

“It is,” Heahmund said. “Such a crime is against God and can not be allowed. _I_ did not allow it.”

“I want to thank you for that,” Ubbe said quietly. “For keeping an eye on my little brother, for protecting him, as it should have been my job and I failed him.”

“You didn't,” Ivar hissed. “Stop that nonsense.”

“I should have come with you and father. It was my duty to follow you and him to England but I did not because I held too much resentment and anger in my heart for Ragnar for leaving us all those years ago.” Ivar stiffened at his side and then, suddenly, he threw the next best thing he could reach at his brother - the bucket of water he had dipped the cloth in with which he had cleaned Heahmund’s injuries. Ubbe barely dodged the assault but water poured all over him in the process. 

“Yes!” Ivar suddenly yelled. “You should have come with us! As any good son should have! But you and the rests are a bunch of bastards! Cowards! Not worth being called the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok!”

“You, on the other hand,” Ubbe muttered. “You deserve this title.” Ivar scoffed. “You showed strength and loyalty to our father when we did not. And you paid a great price for it. Yet, you prevailed.”

“Oh, please spare me your pity, Ubbe!” He hissed like a feral beast. “I do not want it!”

“It is not pity.” Ubbe shook his head. “You never had my pity, Ivar, you know that. Nothing will ever change that.” Heahmund was surprised to see how Ubbe approached his little brother in big strides. The house was small and Ubbe had bridged the distance within a heartbeat. He grabbed Ivar by the back of his neck and pulled him to his chest without losing a hand or an eye for it. Instead, Ivar put his arms around his older brother and it was the first time that Heahmund was allowed a glimpse into the brotherly bond those two shared. A bond so very differently from the one Heahmund had shared with his own older brothers, forged by mutual respect and not just by blood. 

It was odd for him to be a witness to this moment, odd to see Ivar the boneless truly as a human being instead of the man who had ripped another’s throat out with his teeth.

**-End of Chapter 9-**


	10. Chapter 10

He had been a child, seven years old, when he had last come to Uppsala and now, nine years later, he returned as a man to the grove. The poor bishop carried his crippled arse all the way up the treacherous mountain pass and Ivar knew by heart that some of the people who came with them on this pilgrimage were not happy that Ivar joined them - not to mention the bishop, of course. Ivar could see it in their eyes and the lines on their faces. They had not been happy either last time he had been brought along by his mother and his brothers. Some of them, apparently, thought that it meant bad luck to bring a cripple. Usually, those thoughts would dampen his mood significantly, but the moment they stopped on the treacherous mountain path to behold the serene and divine beauty of Uppsala from afar, he already felt closer to the Gods. Here, where the Gods walked, there was no room for ill feelings or sadness. He could feel their presence, could hear them whisper. He was right where he was supposed to be. The Gods had not yet forsaken him.

“Can you feel it, Bishop?” He asked, his face close to the ear of the man. He marveled at his strength. Not even Bjorn would have been willing to carry him all the way up the steep mountains of this land. “The presence of the Gods? Odin walks beside us and Loki plays his tricks in these woods. You better tread carefully now or you will step into one of his traps and get lost.”

“I feel nothing of that sort,” Heahmund replied just like Ivar had expected him to.

“Humor me, Bishop,” He huffed in his ear and noticed how the man shivered as his breath ghosted over his skin. “You will see … By the end of this journey, you will believe in the true Gods and forget all those stupid little stories from this holy book of yours.”

※※※※※※※

He thought of the monk Athelstan as he stepped into the temple behind Ivar. The cripple had demanded to be let down and crawl into the temple by himself so Heahmund had obliged and allowed him this gladly. He was exhausted after the hike up those mountains and through those woods. Ivar had crawled a bit of the way himself whenever his slowly healing injuries had allowed it and sometimes his brothers had helped him along but for most of it, Heahmund had carried him on his back like Jesus had carried his own cross over his shoulder. Maybe that boy was the cross that Heahmund had to bear. 

Uppsala was a remarkable place, even he could admit that. There was a serene silence and calmness that lay over these grounds like a fog. Even Ivar seemed much calmer since they arrived, less angry, less restless. He had been surprised to see a few wooden huts littered over the grounds of the Gods’ Woods where the visitors would be able to rest and sleep. In the center of it all, however, was a beautifully crafted, tall, wooden building that reminded Heahmund in a strange way of a cathedral or a church. After he followed Ivar inside that very building, he realized that this house was used for much a similar purpose as the churches he was used to. 

Heahmund found himself thinking about the monk Athelstan often lately. Athelstan, despite never knowing the man, was him a brother in spirit. He had been in the same situation, brought to this wild land by a heathen, and forced to participate in their rituals whether he wanted to or not. What must Athelstan have felt coming to this strange place for the first time?

It was quiet as he stepped into the temple despite the priest reciting the same rite over and over again. It was not a quietude that was marked by the absence of sounds as the pilgrims walked through the temple and talked to their Gods, though. It was the same, gentle, soft, warm quiet that he knew from his own church in Sherborne, that he knew from the churches of Rome. The scent of burned herbs, of sage and myrrh, wafted through the air. Even the wildest Vikings that he had gotten to know these past couple of weeks, seemed changed as they walked through the temple. He followed Ivar around, after they had stopped in front of the priest, listened to his words, and, ultimately, got splattered with blood. He would never be able to wrap his head around why they had to paint their faces with blood or splatter it on them all the time but he was certain that if he would ask Ivar, the boy would have an explanation that would make perfect sense in his own ears. 

Following Ivar quietly and slowly, he noticed how Ivar’s brothers quietly talked to their Gods in gentle voices. There were huge wooden statues of the various Gods standing in alcoves around the temple and each brother seemed to have sought out a different god to speak to. Until now, Heahmund had not bothered to actually remember any of the things Ivar had explained about their Gods and he still felt no desire to change that. Ivar too was quiet as he slithered across the floor and towards the statue of who Heahmund by now recognized as Odin. For the first time, he saw reverence in the young man as he would see in the eyes of any pilgrim coming to a holy site to be closer to their God. 

He didn't dare to step too close towards Ivar as the young man talked to his God. He just watched from a distance how Ivar pressed a hand against the wood of the statue and mumbled quietly, softly towards Odin. Even though he didn't believe in these Gods, even though he knew what blasphemy all this was, suddenly, Heahmund didn't wish to interfere and disturb the peace at this place. He was far enough away that he did not hear what Ivar was saying either. He was probably praying to Odin for the upcoming war with Aethelwulf in England. The young man was determined to follow his brothers back there and Heahmund knew that Ivar intended to take him with them as well. So far, the young prince had not asked him anything about Aethelwulf though. He had expected that Ivar would try to pry information out of him that might be beneficial but he had not. 

“I can see that you are thinking about something, your grace” Ivar later addressed him with a sly smile as they sat in the woods, Ivar on the ground and Heahmund on a tree stump. “What is it you are trying to make sense of?”

“You,” Heahmund replied openly and noticed with slight amusement how Ivar’s brows shot up in surprise.

“Me?” He asked, the same smile still etched into his features. He was a handsome young man but something told Heahmund that he had no idea about that. “I am easy to make sense of, Bishop. I am merely a cripple. What is it that you are trying to make sense of? Have I not been open and honest with you so far? Have you not seen me at my lowest? Do you not know everything there is to know about me?”

“What did you pray for when you talked to your God? Success in battle against the prince?”

“No,” Ivar huffed, surprising Heahmund once more as he actually seemed to entertain the thought of truthfully answering him. He had not expected that. “I don't need to pray for that. Success will be mine. When I came here for the first time, nine years ago, I prayed to Odin to give me working legs,” He then said and rolled his eyes over his own wish as if it was ridiculous or childish as if not every cripple in the world would ask their God the same thing. “I wanted so desperately to be able to walk. Father had vanished shortly before my first visit and I blamed myself.”

“Why would you blame yourself for your father leaving the family?” Heahmund inquired. “Has he not left after his defeat in Paris? That is, at least, what I have been told.”

“I guess,” Ivar said and he watched his eyes drift across the nearby trees and the people roaming the grounds. “Every child blames themselves when something like this happens. I was a small child, after all. I thought … when he came back from Paris, defeated, and then vanished, that it was because of me. Because I was not like the others and that he thought I was bad luck. People always think I am bad luck and I am not so sure that they are wrong about that. I certainly have not brought good luck to anyone yet. I can be glad, I think, that I have been born to a princess, otherwise I would have lived out my life in a pigsty, lower as a slave. To this day, I think my father regretted that he had not killed me. It did not help that my brother Sigurd kept calling me a changeling when we were little.”

“Changeling?” Heahmund echoed. “What is that?”

“Those are … creatures that take the place of a human child, swapped right after birth, and bring the family of that child great misfortune. I still think that my father was not able to handle my deformities, my abnormalities. As a child, I was convinced that this was the reason why he left us all. I certainly have brought great misfortune to my family. To this day I am not so sure if Sigurd might have been right and that I am not a human.” There was the ghost of a smile dancing over Ivar’s angular features as he kept looking out into the forest. The smell of roast hung invitingly in the air. Ivar had spoken about a great celebration during the night. People were silently laughing and it sounded like nymphs taunting Heahmund and enticing him to follow their voices. In the distance, a woman was singing and he could hear children playing. Bjorn’s children, probably. He came with his wife Torvi and his three children.

“So, did you ask him for working legs again?” Heahmund asked after he had allowed the silence between them to cocoon both of them.

“No,” Ivar chuckled as if the question was ridiculous. “I am not a child anymore, dear Bishop.” He added with a grin that even startled a laugh out of Heahmund. 

“Then what was it you asked him for?”

“I did not _ask_ him for anything today,” Ivar replied evenly and finally his eyes found Heahmund’s face again. “That night when you had me thrown into the well, I asked Odin to help me, asked him to spare me until I could make a name for myself or until I could achieve greatness on my own. I wanted to be worthy of Valhalla and not end up in Helheim as all the other sick and crippled and wretched. I thanked him today for keeping his hand over me, for helping me to survive all of this, and for sending my brothers to save me. I promised him that I would make it worth his while now that I am free again. A true Viking should have been able to escape captivity by themselves but I couldn't do it. I was too weak. So I promised him I would grow strong and that I would do everything in my power to earn my place in his great hall from now on.”

Heahmund looked at the young man with unbridled astonishment and couldn't quite suppress the reaction. Ivar, however, let out a startled laugh, his cheeks and the tips of his ears turning pink. What a peculiar sight. “What?” He asked, his voice rising a few octaves. “You look at me like I’ve grown a second head, dear Bishop!”

“I must confess that I am astonished by your bravery,” He replied and Ivar snorted with a roll of his eyes as if Heahmund had taken a jab on him. “I have never met someone in a situation like yours wishing to fight in a war.”

“There is no one _like me,_ ” Ivar then replied with that Cheshire grin of his and a wink just as they heard Hvitserk calling for his little brother. He had painted his face with reds and whites and drawn runes all over his naked chest and arms.

“The feast begins!” Ivar grinned cheerfully and quickly began crawling towards his brother. Heahmund followed like in a trance, his eyes on Ivar how he slithered over the forest floor like the serpent in the garden of Eden. He was right in one thing. There was no one like Ivar on God’s green earth.

※※※※※※※

It was Sodom and Gomorrah. Heahmund felt as if he had been pulled into the world of that wretched sinful story and now stumbled through it without his consent. He had watched how the brothers had painted Ivar’s body in much the same way as themselves and how they had started indulging in the festivities with plenty of mead, music sounding through the forest, and people dancing and laughing. With every passing hour of daylight, the festivities became more and more unhinged and when night fell, the Gods' woods were the center of an orgy.

He was not allowed to leave Ivar’s side, of course, him being his prisoner, so he went where Ivar went, did what Ivar did, saw what Ivar saw. He watched the young Viking slithering around the festivities, watching how people copulated with one another as if it didn't mean anything. He saw men lying with other men, women lying with other women, two men sharing the same woman, two women sharing the same man. There were no rules, no morals, just animals copulating.

“It is to honor the gods,” Ivar stated with a sly grin as he noticed the disgust on Heahmund’s face and offered the bishop another cup of mead. He had lost count by now how many of them Ivar had pushed into his hands and he had lost track of when he had come to await the drink. “If you want to,” Ivar then said with a nonchalant shrug and gestured towards the scene. “feel free to enjoy yourself. The Gods gave us these bodies to enjoy them.”

“And yet you just sit here and watch,” Heahmund replied. He was sure that he had seen Ubbe vanish with a girl behind a tree just minutes ago. “Why don't you indulge yourself then for your Gods?”

He noticed right away that he had struck a chord in the young man as Ivar’s eyes became dark with anger. And yet, the Vikings swallowed his fury and took another sip from his mead. “I can’t,” He said at last. “My prick doesn’t work - just like my legs. My brothers … before I went to England, they fucked the same girl, did you know that? Not all at once, of course … Though I would not be surprised. They helped me get with her too but … Well ... Either way … No woman would lay with me regardless if it would work or not. Not out of their own free will. Margrethe only did it because Ubbe asked her to.”

“Why do you think that no woman would lie freely with you? Just because of your legs?”

“It's not a nice sight to behold.” Ivar shrugged again but all nonchalance was gone from his voice now. 

“It's not awful either.”

“Would you lie with me then, dear Bishop? If it's not that bad?”

He almost choked at his drink at the question that came out so innocently like it was the most normal thing to ask of another man. “A man shall not lay with another man. It is a great sin.”

“You did not say no.” Ivar winked before he smacked him against the chest with a laugh. “I only jest, dear Bishop. I only jest. My offer, on the other hand, still stands” He said, pointing at the scenery around them. “You are only human, bishop. Your body has desires and my Gods do not judge you for them. My Gods do not care if you lie with a man or a woman, they do not judge the desires of the flesh. Go, have fun, do not waste this night by sitting with a poor unloved cripple like me.”

“You are a peculiar man, Ivar,” He said. Maybe it was the alcohol that loosened his tongue. “You say that I am free to indulge in these hedonistic, sinful activities, yet I am your prisoner and by no means free to do anything if you do not give me permission.”

“I just gave you permission, did I not?”

“Yes, but you do not want me to leave your side.” Ivar snorted at his words but Heahmund carried on regardless. “I can tell. Also, if I were to do as you allow me to … who is to say that I won’t escape? It would be easy during a night like this. You would not even know. Or I might kill you out here in the woods. No one would be able to stop me. Sure, your brothers would know that it was me but by the time they would have found your body, I would have been long gone.”

“Until the first couple of Viking warriors would find you out there, stumbling through the woods and take you captive to sell you as a slave. I have to admit you would make a fine slave.”

Heahmund let out a sigh. Ivar was right, of course. He was a stranger to this land. He was a stranger to all of the Nordic kingdoms. He would sooner die out in the woods than find his way back home to England. Ivar knew this and that was why he didn't deem it important to put him in chains. “I could still kill you and die knowing that I have ridden the earth of an evil. Why don't you put me in chains to protect yourself?”

“If it was in my fate to be killed by you, dear Bishop, then it would have already happened. And if it is in my future, then I am powerless against it anyway.” He huffed before he clinked their cups together like they were old friends. “Plus, how are you going to save my soul and show me the light if I’m dead, huh?”

Heahmund breathed out a low chuckle at that. He noticed a young woman who glanced at him. She was sitting between the roots of a great tree, nursing a cup of mead herself. She was bare-chested, with long blonde hair and shimmering blue eyes. The way she stared at him was unmistakably an invitation. Heahmund felt the familiar tugging of arousal in his loins that beckoned him to go to her and indulge himself like Ivar had said but his resolve was stronger. He could not possibly betray his God by lying with a heathen woman who gave herself so openly to him and probably any other man who would be interested. These heathens and their tainted ways.

“Are you not going to go to her?” Ivar asked with a smirk, looking up at him through long lashes with sparkling blue eyes.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You dress it in pretty words, Ivar, but what you offer me is still sinful and wretched and against my vows and beliefs.”

“Let me ask you … Would it be worse to sleep with a heathen woman than with a Christian?”

“Of course, it would be worse.”

“And where do men rank on this? Will you combust in flames when a man would touch you in such a way? And would it be infinitely worse when it would be a heathen man?”

“I do not care about this game.”

“I do.” Ivar shrugged. “And since you are my prisoner you must do as I say. Maybe I should have you dumped into a well when we return home. Maybe I should have your fingernails torn out one by one by my brothers. They would enjoy that.”

“Why would you not do it yourself?”

“Because you did not hurt me yourself either.” In his head the answer certainly made sense. “You just gave the orders. And I keep wondering if that makes you worse than the people following the orders. I mean … it is not like they had a choice in the matter, right? How does your God feel about torture?”

“It was not my wish to torture you. It was Aethelwulf’s wish.”

“So, you too are just a man following orders?”

“I follow God’s orders and those of my monarch.”

“So, you are saying you are a puppet who is unable to think for himself.”

“Do you not follow your Gods’ orders as well?”

“They do not order me around much and I have never been particularly good at following orders either.” Ivar chuckled and quickly emptied his cup. “I’m gonna take a piss, dear Bishop. Enjoy yourself. You are insulting me and my Gods if you don’t. You would not want to be so impolite and insult me, right?”

Heahmund scoffed but watched how Ivar moved away from him. The young man had drunk more than he had and yet he was surprisingly steady as he crawled away from the scene to empty his bladder.

“I have to warn you” The voice almost made him jump in surprise. As he looked around, he saw Hvitserk slowly come out from behind a tree as if he had been standing there, listening. “You should stop poisoning my brother’s mind. Ivar is not your friend. He is playing with you. To Ivar, you are something curious he wants to understand and toy with until he casts you to the wayside. My brother is not known to let go of grudges. When we were little he waited four years to take his revenge on me for destroying his favorite toy by accident. Never make the mistake of feeling safe at his side or as if he sees you as an equal because he does not.”

“You sound as if there is a great hatred in your heart for your own flesh and blood.”

“No,” Hvitserk chuckled. “I love my brothers - all of them - more than my own life. And because I do, I know that Ivar is dangerous.”

“Are you warning me so I might get away with my life?”

“No,” He said again. “Because you won’t. I’m warning you because you should know what awaits you down the road. And even if, by some miracle, Ivar does not kill you, I will. My brothers and I will never let this go. You will pay for what you did to my brother. It does not matter to me if you did it yourself. It does not matter to me if you gave the orders or not. I do not believe you for a moment when you say you did not know what was happening in your absence. You might not have ordered it but you knew and you allowed it - And for that, you will die.”

Hvitserk never raised his voice as he spoke, never even showed a hint of anger in his voice. He was unnervingly calm as he uttered these threats. “Enjoy the night, Bishop. It might be your last.” Hvitserk then said and vanished into the darkness of the forest.

※※※※※※※

The festivities went on all through the night but he followed Ivar back to the hut that the boy shared with his brothers near the temple at one point. The hut was small and crowded considering that the four brothers were sleeping in it. At least Bjorn had his own accommodations as he had traveled with his own family. There was not much room and from the corner that was designated for him, Heahmund watched Ivar fall into his bed on the ground after the mead and the mushrooms the boy had consumed finally took their toll on him. Heahmund, however, did not find sleep right away. He watched how Ivar’s brothers returned to their hut one after the other and claimed a spot on the ground to sleep somewhere - none of them sober enough to really care as they ended up huddling together like a litter of puppies. Not even as the morning came and the brothers woke up did they seem confused or embarrassed about their sleeping situation. It seemed natural to them to be close like this. 

In fact, after everything he had seen so far, a great many things those people did not think twice about it seemed. Nudity, for example, was nothing to be ashamed of. They embraced nature to their fullest extent. Sex was nothing to be shy about, nothing shameful in their eyes. Oh, how he would scandalize his fellow men when he would finally manage to return to England at one point with those tales. Heahmund continued to be an observer for the rest of the day as he followed Ivar around to a lake nearby where the brothers washed. They played in the water like children, unbothered by each other or their own nudity. Except for Ivar, who sat in the shallow water and could only watch as Heahmund did. Not for the first time, he realized that his childhood must have been a lonely one even surrounded by four older brothers.

“Are you not going to wash?” Ivar asked the bishop at one point, looking at him with those big blue eyes like a child again that could not quite comprehend why Heahmund had not yet stripped and went into the water. It was an innocent question, maybe even a naive one. There was still a certain softness to this boy despite what he had gone through - a softness that only ever seemed to truly show when he was around his older brothers, doing things that came naturally to him, things he might have done as a child. At other times, however, Ivar was cuttingly cold and sharp edges like the blades he would wield. It was an interesting contrast to Heahmund and certainly only another proof that Ivar still had a soul that could be saved by the lord. He needed to double his efforts.

“Don't say you are ashamed to undress?” Ivar cackled quietly. “We are all the same, after all. Well, not me, perhaps, but … you don't have anything that we don't have, dear Bishop. No need to be ashamed. Unless you have a tail. In that case, I would understand the hesitation. Do you have a tail?”

He felt the urge to whack Ivar on the back of his head like he had seen Hvitserk do a couple of times by now. He refrained from it, though. Instead, he allowed a sigh to slip out. “I do not have a tail.” He responded calmly. “And I do not wash in a lake in the middle of nowhere.”

“You Christians!” Ivar laughed and gained a couple of curious looks from his brothers. “You always claim that we heathens live like animals and that we are no better than animals either. Yet, at least we take care of our bodies while you Christians allow yourself to be filthy and smelly.”

“Are you saying that I smell bad?”

“Yes,” Ivar laughed without even hesitating. His honesty was refreshing, that much Heahmund could admit freely. “Yes, you do smell, dear Bishop. I was appalled when I was in England and saw how many men of the king were dirty and reeked.”

Heahmund finally gave up and pulled his tunic over his head. It didn't escape him that Ivar was watching him while his brothers were decidedly not watching him. A moment later he had complied and waded slowly into the freezing cold water of the mountain lake. The last time he had done anything like this was when he had still been a few years younger than Ivar before his father had sent him to the monastery. Back then, life had not seemed as dire and serious, he had not yet been indoctrinated by the church and punished for every stray thought he might have had. Maybe they, Ivar and he, could have been friends in his youth. He saw many things in Ivar that he had long buried about himself.

“See?” He asked. “No tail.”

“No tail,” Ivar grinned, visibly satisfied that he had once more gotten his way.

※※※※※※※

There was something serene and oddly peaceful about the atmosphere as the ritualistic sacrifices began. Heahmund wanted nothing more than to leave this place and run as far as he possibly could but he knew that that was not an option for him to choose. He could only watch in horror how nine goats were slaughtered, followed by nine pigs, and nine chickens. The animals were kept in little fenced-off pens and so were the human sacrifices as well. Nine men stood dressed in simple white tunics and waited for their slaughter. Amazed, Heahmund saw that not one of them seemed anxious, that not one of them seemed uneasy. They were calm, smiling even. What delusions those poor people suffered! It was as Ivar told him weeks ago: to them, it was the greatest honor to be sacrificed for their gods. It was something to be proud of, something to be jealous of. 

The crowd was completely quiet as one man after the other laid down on the stone altar and got his throat slit by Queen Lagertha before she painted her face in the blood of the men. No word was spoken during all that. Then, however, something unexpected happened. After the third man had been slaughtered by the queen, she beckoned Bjorn to join her at the altar with a smile that looked beautiful even despite the blood of her victims on her face. At that moment, dressed in her white robes, Lagertha had something of a pagan goddess herself. 

Ivar’s oldest brother stepped forward as the fourth man laid down on the altar in the blood of the men that had come before him. Lagertha handed Bjorn the ritualistic dagger without a word, then she shortly pulled Bjorn down to her level to kiss his forehead before she took a step back. If any of that came as a surprise to anyone, no one was showing even a hint of it. Lagertha’s son stepped up to the altar and slit the man’s throat as his mother had before. Heahmund expected him to step away and hand the dagger back but he didn't. He killed a second man, painting his face with the blood of his victims before he too took a step away from the altar and beckoned Ubbe to join him.

It clicked in Heahmund’s head then that this was a gesture of respect from Lagertha, extended to not only her own son but those of the woman she had killed as well. It was a plea for peace between them, a hand extended in friendship and love, showing that she saw Aslaug’s sons as her own as well and that she would not go against them. Ubbe stepped up to Bjorn and Lagertha without hesitation. The queen pulled him down to her level and kissed his forehead as she did with Bjorn and Bjorn handed his brother the dagger. This was not only an act of respect within the family, it was a show for the people they had brought here, a pact they made in front of the Gods at this holy site. He felt Ivar stiffen beside him. The young man was sitting on a stool that one of his brothers had brought with them as well as a pair of crutches that he seemed uncomfortable using whenever Heahmund saw him doing so. He could see how he was gritting his teeth, angry at the display as Ubbe cut another man’s throat and called Hvitserk over. 

Was it anger because of the oath his brothers were forced into? Or was it anger because Ivar believed that he would be ignored like he so often seemed to be ignored? He watched with bated breath how Hvitserk followed in his brother's footsteps and then Sigurd. He was not the only one holding his breath, though. It seemed almost cruel what Lagertha did. Ivar would not be able to reach the man on the altar. It was almost like she was taunting him and still, as she called for the youngest of Ragnar's many sons, Ivar clenched his jaws and slowly crawled towards the altar. 

It was then that Bjorn stepped forward again and handed his brother one of his crutches that had lain hidden behind the altar. Lagertha had to have planned all of this and Bjorn had probably been the only one who knew about it beforehand to have brought his brother’s crutch. Ivar was all but hidden from sight now before he slowly managed to stand with his crutch. One more time, Lagetha stepped forward to kiss Ivar on the forehead and Heahmund could see the desire burning in Ivar’s eyes as Sigurd handed him the dagger. He was so close to Lagertha that all he needed to do was swipe and cut her throat instead. She knew that. But Ivar knew that he was not allowed to spill blood or fight in the Gods' woods. Instead, his grip around the knife became iron-strong, his knuckles turning white, and Heahmund watched in horrified apprehension how the blade slit through the last man's throat, spilling his blood over the stone. Slowly, Ivar put the knife down, dragged his fingers through the blood on the altar, and then in three distinct marks down his forehead, the bridge of his nose and his cheeks.

Over the altar and the dead body, Ivar’s impossibly blue eyes met his and for just a second his lips quirked up in recognition as Heahmund felt something tugging in the pit of his stomach. Cursed be these heathens and their cruel gods.

**-End of Chapter 10-**


	11. Chapter 11

“I think” Ivar’s voice was soft as he spoke up, lying in the dim light of the fire burning inside the small hut. It was their last night in Uppsala. Early in the morning, they would return back to Kattegat. Ivar’s brothers were still outside, drinking and sitting around the bonfire. Ivar, on the other hand, had retired early, surprisingly to Heahmund. Ivar was usually not one to leave any celebration early. It was his desire to be a part of whatever was going on that shone through at those moments and reminded him far too much of himself when he was much younger and living at home with his older brothers and his parents. From his corner, Heahmund glanced over at the young man. He lay on his back, his head cushioned on his right arm, his left hand cradled against his stomach. It had healed nicely but Heahmund noticed that he was still careful about using it. “When we go to England … I really want to raid a monastery and kill some priests - as my father did.”

Heahmund let out a snort at the words as if Ivar had made a joke. Deep down he knew that Ivar was not joking in the slightest, of course. The way he said it, though, as if he was not thinking about killing a bunch of innocent men but just what he wanted to eat in the morning, was what amused Heahmund.

“Killing comes so naturally to you,” He replied calmly and noticed the way Ivar’s eyes lit up as if he thought he had just been praised, a small grin pulling at the corners of his mouth as he turned his head just enough to look at Heahmund. “I have seen it today. You killed that man without a second thought, without hesitation, as if he was nothing, as if his life meant nothing.”

“Am I a monster to you now, dear Bishop?” Was he? Just a couple of days ago he might have said yes to that question. Now, however, he didn't have an answer and Ivar didn't give him time to answer either - almost as if he was afraid to hear Heahmund’s opinion about him. “As I said before, dear Bishop, it is an honor. And it is an even greater honor to be killed by a son of Ragnar Lothbrok. My father is a descendant of Odin just like my brothers and I. We are kissed by the Gods, Bishop. I did not need to hesitate while killing the man. It was his wish and it was the Gods’ wish. My hand was steady when I held the blade and when I cut his throat because the Gods were watching and he was embracing his fate. It is one of the most … how do you Christians say … _holy_ acts in my culture. If I had hesitated, I would have hurt the man. If my hand had not been steady, the cut might have been too shallow to bleed him out quickly and then he would have suffered. I felt humbled in the eyes of the Gods today, and I felt a deep respect for the man I killed.”

“It was a nice gesture of the queen to allow you and your brothers to carry out the sacrifices with her. I understand that this is not usually the case?”

“Not usually, no,” Ivar said with a half-hearted shrug before a huff escaped his full lips before his mouth curled in disgust. “But it was not a _nice gesture_ , dear Bishop. Today she put a collar on all of us like we are nothing but rabid dogs. She tied us up like Odin tied up the great Fenris wolf and the dagger she handed me was Gleipnir. I doubt that my brothers have realized what she did. She bound our hands. We made an oath to her today and everyone has seen it, the Gods have borne witness to it. My revenge will have to wait and she knows that. Today I was forced to agree to peace with Lagertha.” Ivar all but spat out the name like it was nothing but a curse. To him, that was probably true. “I wonder if my brothers knew that she was going to do this. Bjorn knew, probably. I wouldn't be surprised if the others knew too. They don't want to fight her. They are weak, cowards even. They always wanted to put me on a leash and today they succeeded. It is a blood oath. I cannot break it.”

The queen was smart, Heahmund had to give her credit for that. He hadn't realized how deep such a promise went but if it kept Ivar away from her throat, she had made a powerful move today and created an ally with force. Not even Ivar would risk being shunned by his people for going against the queen.

“I still do not quite understand.”

“How could you,” Ivar scoffed but there was surprisingly little malice in his voice. “Today she stood in front of our people, the high priests of Uppsala, and the Gods to carry out the most sacred act in our culture, a great honor only allowed to be carried out by a mighty ruler. And she shared this honor not only with her own son but with us - Ragnar’s sons. And in doing this, in kissing us like a mother would, in handing us the dagger, she made us _her_ sons in the eyes of our people and the Gods. She told the whole world that we are hers in spite of everything that happened in the past, that we are a united front, a family. And in accepting the dagger from her hands, we agreed to this and signed the pact with the blood of the men who were sacrificing themselves to the Gods.”

“You could have denied her,”

“No,” Ivar laughed. “I could not have denied her, dear Bishop. My hand was forced. It would have been a great affront, an injustice if I had not complied. A crime that may be even worthy of the death sentence.”

“Clever.” 

“Yes,” Ivar sighed. “I underestimated her. That will not save her forever, though. One day, I will kill her - even if it takes me the rest of my life.”

“At least your Gods cannot claim that you are not determined.”

“I have to be, dear Bishop,” Ivar snickered, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he looked at him from where he was resting on his bed. “If I wouldn't be, I would be just a cripple, like my father always feared I would be when I was born.”

※※※※※※※

“Your legs,” Heahmund said as they wandered through the woods - or rather as he was carrying him. They had departed at sunrise, putting their backs to Uppsala and beginning the tedious way back through the woods and down the mountain. Ivar’s weight on his back was by now familiar to Heahmund. In the beginning, he had felt humiliated by having to carry the cripple around through Kattegat, with his own wounds from the battle slowly healing. It had left him exhausted and angry every time he had to pick him up. Now, months later with Spring finally here to warm the earth again, it felt natural - just like it felt natural to have Ivar’s breath ghost over the shell of his ear when he would be talking to Heahmund. “What is wrong with them?”

“You have seen them,” Ivar scoffed, his breath on Heahmund’s skin sending shivers down his spine. “You know what's wrong with them.”

“I have seen that they are deformed and emaciated, yes. I thought you could not use them at all.”

“I am not paralyzed, dear Bishop”, he chuckled. “You have seen me on crutches before. I was born this way. My legs … the bones in my legs are fragile like … twigs and snap just as easily. When I was little they broke all the time, that was why my mother held me close and did not allow me to play with the others. My brothers used to pull me around in a cart through Kattegat before I grew too heavy for that. But I can feel them and I can move them a little. My right leg is the worst of the two … My knee is stiff and my ankle too because the bones did not heal properly when I was younger.”

“You must be in pain then.”

“Yes,” Ivar chuckled. “Constantly, dear Bishop.”

“I wouldn't have known if you wouldn't have told me.”

“That's the point.”

He was silent for a second before a low chuckle escaped him. Ivar was strong. He had seen it before, had realized it before but how strong exactly had not been clear to him until this point. To live a life in constant pain was bound to make a person bitter and still, Ivar showed love when it came to his family - in his own way, at least. He showed fondness. He had even seen him show kindness to others before. He had seen him defend a little girl in Kattegat once. She had been picked on by older boys but when Ivar came slithering out of his house they had run off scared. Those weeks, months, at Kattegat had shown him easily that Ivar was not only that unpredictable beast that he had seen rip out another man’s throat with his teeth. He wondered how Ivar might have turned out if he had not been born a cripple. Then again, he had to admit that he had grown quite fond of Ivar and his sharp tongue, his snarky comments, and his intelligent mind. Maybe he would not have all of this if he had been born healthy. Ivar had once told him that he had to be smarter than anyone else around, that he had to be snarky and witty because his intelligence was his only way of ensuring his survival. 

“My mother,” Heahmund said as he broke the comfortable silence between them and did not even know what compelled him to do so. “before I became a priest and was still living at home, she became very ill. I was very young and did not quite understand it yet but I think even then I knew, deep down, that she was going to die. She became very weak very quickly and my father, who had never been a patient or kind man, let his anger out on her quite often even during those last months of her life. I still do not know what illness plagued her but I remember how her smile never faltered. I realize now that she had to have been in constant pain but whenever I was around, she never showed any of it. She kept her head held high, her back straight, and a smile on her lips. She never moaned, never whined, never asked for help even.”

“She was a strong woman then. In my culture she would have been seen as a fierce warrior,” Ivar commented quietly and Heahmund, for some odd reason, felt his chest swell with pride at the prince’s words. “My own mother used to whine about the smallest inconveniences.” He added with a chuckle and Heahmund too had to laugh at that comment. 

※※※※※※※

Ivar could feel his brother’s muscles work as he was carrying him on his back. The movement was almost enough to lull him to sleep, so familiar was it to Ivar. The journey was long and grueling and especially so for his brothers and Heahmund because they had to carry him like a child whenever Ivar would get too exhausted to crawl or use his crutches. Ubbe had taken over for the good bishop a little while ago and now Ivar was leaning into the familiar warmth, resting his chin on Ubbe’s shoulder.

“I can hear you think,” Ivar muttered quietly. “It makes my head hurt.”

Ubbe breathed out a laugh at his words and glanced at him as much as he possibly could without moving his head. He could see a hint of amusement shining in Ubbe’s azure blue eyes. “I’m just afraid that you are telling this guy too much,” Ubbe then said without needing to elaborate on who he meant. Ivar was well aware that his brothers wanted the good bishop dead. “He is not your friend, Ivar.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” Ivar scoffed. “I do not have any friends, Ubbe. I am very aware of that. If you were not my brother, you wouldn't stick around either.”

“Do not say that.”

“But it is true, is it not, Ubbe?” He mocked quietly but without any real malice. “I am your cripple brother. That is the only reason you care about me. Mother forced you to take care of me and you like caring for people. I am your pet cripple.”

“You are my brother,” Ubbe agreed with a roll of his eyes. “And I love you. And that is enough. And because I love you, I am concerned that you are entrusting the priest with too much information. I mean have you even tried getting any information from him yet? About England? About Aethelwulf? About the upcoming war?”

“Don't be stupid, Ubbe,” He sighed. “He wouldn't tell me anything if I asked him. And I have seen what I needed to see during my travels, learned what I needed to learn when I was at Ecbert’s house. They thought I could not understand them and so I played along. I was the picture-perfect image of a cripple: helpless, defenseless, weak. I acted as if I would not understand them, played nice with the young prince, and learned.”

“If you do not want him for information then why do you keep him around? Why do you allow him to live? Why is he not in chains but allowed to roam free?”

“He is a great warrior.” Ivar shrugged with a sly grin as if that would be enough of an answer. “He might be of use later.”

“You like him.”

“Maybe?”

“Ivar…”

“What? Am I not allowed to like other people?” He laughed. “Are you _jealous_ , Ubbe?”

Ubbe bumped his head against Ivar’s in retaliation. “As long as you just toy with him, I do not care but I want you to be careful, little brother. This man has bad intentions and he will never fight for you against his own people. You may have learned a lot at King Ecbert’s house when you were there but do not forget that the priest might be learning a lot too while you allow him to live.”

“Oh, but here is where you are mistaken, Ubbe,” He smirked and glanced over to where the bishop was walking. He could see how his lips were moving. He was probably praying to his Gods. He would often do that. Sometimes it drove Ivar nuts, sometimes it was calming. “I do not expect him to fight for us.”

Ubbe let out a sigh and turned his head to look at him fully this time, his beard scratching over Ivar’s cheek in the process. It was a strange sensation on his skin but Ivar had always secretly loved it. “I am not even going to pretend that I understand you, Ivar.”

“It would just give _you_ a headache, brother.”

“I always have a headache when I am talking to you.” Ivar chuckled at that and closed his eyes as he relaxed against his big brother’s back. “And I wonder,” Ubbe then broke the silence again. “How do you plan on participating in the war, Ivar? I mean … Undoubtedly, you will come with us, right? Are you staying at camp?”

“I will be on the battlefield with you and the others,” Ivar promised with a grin spreading on his face. “You will see, Ubbe. I will make the Gods and our father proud on the battlefield.”

“I do not doubt that.”

※※※※※※※

They stopped for the night near a river and set up camp on a large clearing. They slept under the stars without tents. If he had a weapon, it would have been easy for Heahmund to take out at least one or two of the sons of Ragnar but for the first time since he arrived in Norway, he didn't feel hate towards the Norsemen - despite what he had witnessed these past couple of days. They lived by their own beliefs and Gods, did what they believed to be righteous. And even though they were clearly wrong about that, Heahmund realized that they were not so very different, all things considered. It gave him hope that, one day, they would be able to see the light. Not just Ivar but his whole village, his whole family.

Heahmund had fallen asleep quickly as he had leaned against a tree near the spot where the four sons of the late queen had laid down together, always staying as a pack. It was hard to get a word with Ivar alone since they left Kattegat because one of his brothers was always around. For the first time, Heahmund realized that he had actually been looking forward to talking alone with Ivar without the watchful eyes of his brothers on them. He had to admit that his conversations with Ivar always left him with something to think about for hours, sometimes even days. Ivar had a great mind. Heahmund could see that. And he possessed a grace that the world around him was blind to. Sure, Ivar had a bad temper and a very short fuse but his mind was sharp and flexible and while the people around him underestimated him, he would just smile that sardonic and sometimes mischievous smile of his and just let it glide off of him - for the moment. 

And then there was this dangerous side that Heahmund had glimpsed once or twice so far and that didn't fail to excite him. There was no question about the fact that Ivar would be able to defend himself, that he would be brutal when he would return to England. 

As he woke up, the moon stood high above the camp and the campfire had been reduced to smoldering embers. A quiet lay over the campsite, disrupted only by the gurgling of the stream and the snoring of the men. Heahmund let his gaze wander over the sleeping figures, wondering if that was the moment God had created for him to escape and find his way home. If he would follow the river he might be able to find his way to a harbor soon. And then what? He had no money, no weapons. He would be attacked and sold into slavery. As his eyes darted over the sleeping brothers, the cause for his predicament, he noticed quickly that one of them was missing. The space between Hvitserk and Ubbe that had previously been occupied by Ivar was now deserted. Again, Heahmund let his gaze wander but there was no sign of Ivar anywhere near. 

That realization should not nearly startle him as much as it did. He told himself that it was self-preservation talking as he silently got up from his spot at the tree and started searching for the young man. After all, Ivar was the only thing keeping him alive in the midst of these heathens. If Ivar would no longer be around they would tear him to shreds. Sure, he should be happy to die for his God but those heathens would do unspeakable things to him and Heahmund was certain that he had not yet done what God wanted him to do. If he would be able to convince just one of those people to follow the right path, if he would be able to convince Ivar to come into the light, then he could die in peace.

For the longest time, Heahmund had not been sure what his purpose was. He was a sinner. He was unable to resist the temptations of the flesh and God knew and saw it. He had thought that he needed to repent for his sins but he hadn't cared enough to stop falling prey again and again to his desires. But if he would be able to convert Ivar, convert a son of Ragnar Lothbrok then surely everything would be forgiven. And Ivar - Heahmund was sure of that - would find peace in God.

He was quiet as he left the campsite, afraid that someone would notice his movements and either kill him or wake the others. Ivar would probably not be concerned that he might have tried to flee but his brothers and the queen certainly would be. He had no idea where to look for his captor in the middle of the dark woods, of course, so he stayed close to the water so that he wouldn't lose his way. Soon, he realized that the sounds were changing. There was no longer just the soft gurgling of the river but the loud hissing of a waterfall and then he knew that Ivar had to be close. Maybe it was instinct that drove him towards the waterfall. It was like he was being pulled by an invisible string towards the Viking prince no matter what.

Heahmund followed the sound until he could see the waterfall in the bright moonlight that was glistening on the dark waters. And there, almost like a siren from an old folktale, sat Ivar on a stone with his feet dangling in the water, naked like on the day he was born with apparently no regard for modesty or the concern that someone might be preying on him. For a moment, Heahmund paused in the shadow of a tree and just watched the young man. If he wouldn't know any better, he would say that Ivar was praying to his Gods the way he sat there, completely at peace in the middle of the night, alone in the forest as if there was no danger lurking for him in this wilderness. As if Heahmund wouldn't be able to approach him quietly and slit his throat like Ivar had slit the throat of that man in Uppsala.

“Are you going to lurk like a wolf in the shadows or are you joining me?” He actually jumped at the sound of Ivar’s voice that sounded so clear over the sound of the rushing waterfall, that for a second Heahmund was convinced he was right beside him. Ivar was not even looking at him, keeping his back at Heahmund instead, his scars on full display as they stretched over his broad shoulders and strong back.

“I was not going to lurk,” Heahmund replied with a chuckle as he slowly stepped forward. “How did you know I was there?”

“I heard you,” Ivar said with a nonchalant shrug as he finally turned his head to look at Heahmund. For someone who hated nothing more than when people looked at his legs, he seemed comfortable out here. Then again, Heahmund had already seen Ivar naked more times than he could count. Knowing that it would be futile to do anything else, he walked over to where Ivar was sitting. Ivar’s hair was wet and his skin glistened like diamonds in the moonlight. He couldn't even blame the young man for enjoying a bit of a midnight swim even though the water should be deathly cold this time of the year. Ivar had not seemed bothered bathing in the river in Uppsala either while Heahmund had frozen his ass off.

“It's beautiful here,” Heahmund said as he gestured towards the scenery surrounding them. It was easy to imagine that this part of the forest was a whole other world.

“My parents met here,” Ivar replied out of the blue before he added, with a chuckle: “Not directly _here_ at this waterfall. But here is where their story began.”

“Tell me,” Heahmund asked quietly and sat down on another stone. He was tired and exhausted from the trek down the mountain and he knew that he needed all his energy when they would continue their journey at sunrise and yet he elected to sit down and listen to Ivar talk. He didn't even know why. He should throw Ivar over his shoulder and bring him back to camp - or drown him in the lake at the foot of the waterfall to get it over with.

“My father was on a mission for King Horik when they met. He was a visitor of Jarl Borg who ruled this region of Sweden back in the day. Jarl Borg sent him to go see the famed ash-tree of Gotland while Floki went to Denmark to negotiate with King Horik. Anyway, on his travels to the tree with Bjorn and a couple of his men, my father made camp” - Ivar pointed back over his shoulder, down the river - “just a bit further down the river and sent two of his men to go fishing. They came across this lake and the waterfall and as they stopped here to go fishing, they saw my mother bathing in the lake. My mother’s shield maidens almost killed the two voyeurs and my mother demanded an apology from their leader. When my father heard the news he laughed and sent one of his men back to my mother with a riddle.”

“What kind of riddle?” The picture Ivar painted seemed so vivid that Heahmund could almost envision the scene. A bright sunny day, a beautiful young maiden bathing in the lake like something from a dream. 

“My father was a curious man. He was immediately intrigued by her demand for an apology,” Ivar laughed and the sound was like honey out here in the open, far removed from the rest of their travel party and his brothers. “He thought that this mysterious forest nymph might be a test from the Gods. He saw it as a challenge and he accepted. So, he said that he would apologize if she would come neither dressed nor undressed, neither hungry nor full, neither in company nor alone.”

“And what did she do?”

At his question, the grin on Ivar’s face only became bigger. “She came dressed in a fishnet, an apple in her hand that she took a bite out of when she met my father, and in the company of a dog. Neither dressed nor undressed, neither hungry nor full, neither in company nor alone.” Ivar laughed again at that. The tale brought a grin to Heahmund’s own face. It was clear, he suddenly thought, that Ivar had a lot of his father’s curious mind and famous genius but moreover, he too had the wit of his mother, it seemed. “Well, my father was impressed with her wit and beauty, of course, and my mother joined his travel after that. Not long after that, Ubbe was born. I heard the story a million times growing up. My mother told it to me often. However, I never saw the spot where it all began. I feel closer to her here.”

There was a bit of sadness, maybe even longing coloring Ivar’s voice at these words. And, looking back, maybe it was that what served as the catalyst for what came next.

Before Heahmund knew what he was doing, Heahmund had already reached out to Ivar and pulled the young Viking towards him. As his lips pressed against those of the other man, he felt ice running through his veins and fire in his heart like he had been struck by lightning. He didn't know what it was about Ivar and the story he had told him or if it was the spot they were at that held a certain kind of pagan magic, but the moment he had looked at the Viking he had known that he would kiss him - that he _needed_ to kiss him. It was wrong, of course, a deadly sin - one he had committed numerous times in his youth in the shadows of taverns or in the secret niches of the abbey as a young monk. It was a dangerous game he was playing but Heahmund had always been drawn towards danger.

Ivar’s surprised gasp gave him the opportunity to deepen the kiss before the heathen could do anything about it - aware of the danger of Ivar just biting off his tongue. He was surprised, however, to find him quite responsive to his kiss instead. His own fingers tightened their grip in Ivar’s hair as the young Viking grabbed the back of his neck to pull him tighter against his own body. Arousal shot through Heahmund like an arrow and hit him straight into his core without his consent. Lord have mercy on his poor soul. He was just a sinner and Ivar had put a curse on him the moment their eyes had first met. A soft moan tore from Ivar’s full lips as their bodies molded together like this. 

He didn't waste time as he got back to his feet and picked the young man up with little effort. Suddenly, he seemed to weigh nothing as Heahmund carried him away from the water and laid Ivar down on the mossy ground. Ivar didn't protest nor did he fight him off, he didn't even interrupt their kiss as if it was the only thing that made sense to him right now. And it did. Right now, it was the only thing in Heahmund’s life that actually made sense. Before long, Ivar’s fingers were pulling and tearing at the shirt he was wearing and Heahmund complied in taking it off even as it meant that they had to break their kiss to catch their breath.

Not much thought went into any of this as Heahmund’s mouth found the neck of the other man, biting down hard into his flesh and tearing another moan from Ivar. The taste of Ivar’s flesh was intoxicating as he brushed his lips further down, dragging his tongue down the valleys and hills of Ivar’s toned chest. 

However, Ivar was greedy and soon he was pulling on Heahmund’s black hair to reclaim his mouth in another hungry kiss. And Heahmund was all too willing to give him what he wanted as his fingers trailed further down Ivar’s naked body. He was already a slave to his lust, unable to resist the temptation out here where no one but God could see them. This was their garden Eden and Ivar was the serpent that was tempting him with the apple and like Eve, Heahmund could not resist him. Moving against the young man, another deep moan tore from Ivar’s throat and they broke apart once more if only because Ivar was already tearing at his pants and Heahmund was too eager to get them off himself. Ivar was certainly not like the women in Sherborne that he had fucked just to find an outlet for his lust. He was not a blushing maiden afraid to look at him during the deed and certainly, he was not ashamed of his own desires. Ivar embraced them as his people embraced nature in its purest form. 

He was between the Viking’s legs before any of them could waste a thought about any of it before they could start questioning and overthinking it. Only as his index finger caught on the puckered skin of Ivar’s entrance, the young man flinched away violently, the ghost of pain and panic so stark in his eyes that it almost broke Heahmund’s heart.

“I won't hurt you,” He promised, his voice low and raspy as he looked at the young man, trying to assure Ivar that he had no ill intentions towards him as his heart was racing inside his chest. “I’ll make you feel good.” 

As Ivar still looked uncertain, his mouth a tight line, suddenly unable to speak and voice his opinion, Heahmund slithered down his body and planted a kiss against one of the many scars on the skin of Ivar’s legs. A gasp of air fled Ivar's mouth before, with a wicked grin, Heahmund dragged his tongue over the underside of Ivar’s cock. He flinched again, not out of fear though this time. It was remarkable how a man like Ivar could react like this to the simple caress of Heahmund’s tongue as he repeated it. Surprise was evident on Ivar’s pale face in the moonlight. Surprise over the reactions of his own body as his cock filled further with blood and was resting against his flat stomach. Heahmund, however, did not allow Ivar to dwell on the surprise for too long. Instead, he closed his lips around the heathen, taking him as deeply as he possibly could without gagging. Ivar’s manhood was heavy on his tongue but it was not an uncomfortable sensation. As he moved his lips over his cock, he noticed how Ivar was clawing at the moss he was lying on, gasps tearing from his throat as he was startled by these new sensations he had never experienced before. Soon, the Viking warrior was a quivering mess underneath him as he was taking him apart piece by piece.

Before Ivar could fall apart completely, however, Heahmund withdrew his lips and planted a kiss on his trembling stomach, slowly making his way back up. "Let me have you," Heahmund growled softly against his neck, dragging his tongue over it until he reached up and captured Ivar’s lips again, finding them soft and pliant underneath his own. "Just this once."

A nod. Barely there yet all the confirmation Heahmund needed. They had nothing to ease the way but their own spit as Heahmund breeched Ivar slowly with one finger. Underneath him, the boy tensed and stopped breathing for barely a second, the shadow of the pain and fear he had suffered in captivity ghosting over his face before Heahmund captured his lips again. He took his time, more time than his own cock would allow him normally, more time he had ever spent on a woman as he slowly worked Ivar open until he was no longer tense and nervous.

"I won't hurt you, Prince," He promised once more as he, at last, nudged Ivar’s legs out of the way and slithered between them. He would make him forget what happened before, would show him pleasures beyond his wildest dreams.

As the tip of his cock entered Ivar, the young man gasped for breath once again but this time there was no fear or pain, just unbridled lust, and desire. Ivar clawed at his back already as he lowered himself onto him slowly, pushing forward and claiming Ivar’s body inch by inch, slowly and steadily. Only when he was sheathed inside him fully did Heahmund pause to catch his breath. Ivar’s constricting heat made it hard for him to not lose his mind, to not lose his patience, to not just start rutting into him like an animal. The young Viking stared at him with wide eyes, panting, trying to catch his breath before he pulled him into another kiss, slower this time, not as heated and desperate as before. Heahmund could feel him relax underneath him, felt him mold around him as if he had been made to take Heahmund - as if his Gods had created him for these sinful pleasures. 

Ivar’s hands were hot against his neck and with every passing second, it became harder and harder and more unbearable to actually keep still and allow the young man this moment of pause and control over the situation. Finally, Heahmund could no longer hold himself back from moving and a soft moan ripped through Ivar as he pulled his hips back and snapped them forward. The young prince had never felt such pleasures and Heahmund was adamant to make him see stars and forget his own name and his Gods. He was adamant to erase what had been done to him from his memories, adamant to show him how different it should feel from how Ivar had experienced this before. He was not pinning him down, not forcing his way into his body, not taking control away from Ivar.

He could feel Ivar’s heartbeat quicken as they remained skin to skin, chest to chest, connected with every inch of their naked bodies. He rocked his hips forward steadily, in a slow, deep, rolling motion, and Ivar’s moans got louder with every thrust and every time the tip of Heahmund’s cock brushed over the slight swell inside of him. He focused on hitting that spot, again and again, driving Ivar mad in the process, feeling his blunt nails raking down his back, feeling Ivar’s cock hard between their bodies, and leaking precum. He could tell that Ivar didn't know what to do with his hands, could tell that he had never been with anyone like this before, and knowing this made the young man somehow endearing to Heahmund. It was suddenly very easy to forget how Ivar had slit a man’s throat without a second thought and then painted his face with the blood of the man. It was suddenly easy to forget how Ivar had killed two of his guards with just his teeth and his hands.

Right now, both of them were the children of God, safe in Mother Nature's embrace, following their natural urges to find pleasure within the other. Sweat clung to his entire body by the time Heahmund could no longer hold himself back and as his thrusts became harder and quicker, Ivar’s moans turned into cries of pleasure. He felt Ivar tugging lazily at his own cock, his body like fire around Heahmund as he pushed deeper and deeper into the enticing heat and the constricting embrace.

He muffled Ivar’s lustful scream as he came with another kiss, afraid that they might get caught by his brothers otherwise, grunting into it as he could no longer hold onto his senses and spilled his release into the young man, following him over the edge of the cliff so quickly that it left him dazed and disoriented. Slowly, he rode out his orgasm, moving his hips lazily as Ivar’s kiss grew sloppier before he broke away altogether and instead started nibbling along his jawbone, not willing to let go of Heahmund yet.

Later they lay together on the ground between leaves and grass and twigs side by side, their arms brushing against each other, the chill air of the night ghosting over their naked, sweaty bodies. He hadn't felt so good or so alive in a long while. His heart was still racing and beating against his chest like a mad bird fighting against its cage. Ivar was quiet beside him, surprisingly so. As he turned his head to look at him, the young man stared at the sky, his mouth slightly open. He seemed confused by what had just happened and before Heahmund could say anything, Ivar turned on his belly and started to crawl towards the shore of the lake. He watched him get into the water as he propped himself up on his elbows. 

For a second, Heahmund just watched the Viking but Ivar kept his back towards him. Even in the light of the moon, his scars looked grueling and reminded him of the time Ivar had spent in his dungeon. He could tell that Ivar craved quietude right now to make sense of what he had done with Heahmund and untwist the thoughts that had undoubtedly gotten all scrambled up in that brilliant mind. So, without another word, Heahmund grabbed his clothes and started to get dressed before he left Ivar to his thoughts.

**-End of Chapter 11-**


	12. Chapter 12

Ivar was skittish. In fact, Bjorn had never seen his brother like this before. He seemed nervous but he couldn't quite tell what it was that Ivar was nervous about. Bjorn was by far not the only one noticing it either. Ubbe too was shooting their brother concerned looks, always in-tune with their youngest brother. On the boat, Ivar stayed suspiciously far away from Heahmund and he had even asked Ubbe to carry him again for the rest of the way before they had reached their boats. When Ubbe had tired, he had crawled after them instead of letting Heahmund carry him. It was strange.

They were only a couple of hours away from home as Bjorn walked over to Ivar who was sitting at the bow, huddled into the nook like he had at his return from England. He looked pale and a bit green in the face as the oldest of Ragnar’s sons approached.

“You are not getting seasick on me, are you?” He said sitting down with him, amusement creeping into his voice. His brother had deep shadows under his eyes, his lips were deathly white and, indeed, not a second later, Ivar quickly leaned over the railing and entrusted the sea with the contents of his stomach. Bjorn laughed quietly at his brother’s plight and rubbed Ivar’s back soothingly only to have Ivar flinch away from the touch. “You good?”

“Yes,” Ivar groaned leaning back into the boat. He did not look the part, though. Well, Ivar had not been on a ship often in his life. He had not been allowed to by his mother because it had been too dangerous in case the ship would capsize. However, on their way to Uppsala, Ivar had shown no sign of seasickness at all. Strange how this seemed to have changed all of a sudden.

“Good because we need you in fighting shape when we go to England.” Bjorn nudged him gently, trying to coax a smile out of Ivar or at least a roll of his eyes, something that looked a little more normal and a little less as if his baby brother had the plague.

“Don't worry,” Ivar said, plastering a cocky smile onto his face that did not quite reach his eyes. “I will be.” And, in an instant, his brother was leaning over the railing once more retching while the cackling laughter of Hvitserk and Sigurd wafted across the sea. With a grimace, Bjorn just put his hand on Ivar’s back and stayed with his baby brother for as long as it would take him to recover.

※※※※※※※

A thousand different thoughts kept shooting through his mind even as he sat in the town square and watched the people of his hometown scurrying around like rats. Everyone was so busy preparing for the journey to England. He would take Heahmund with him, of course, and yet he had no idea what to do when they would be there. He harbored no illusions about the fact that Heahmund would not fight for him against his own people and Ivar had no way of forcing him to do his bidding either. If he threatened death, the man would just embrace it. He held no leverage. That, however, was not his biggest problem since his return to Kattegat.

Ivar had always liked to watch people. It was how he got the information he needed to spin his web. Everyone always disregarded the cripple when he would be sitting around somewhere, watching - lurking, as most might say - and because they disregarded him, they would talk freely amongst each other, spill all their dirty little secrets and air all their dirty laundry right in front of him without realizing it. He was an observer. The most intelligent people were. Floki had told him once or twice before how his father used to sit in front of the house and watch his people for hours sometimes. His father too had been an observer. This way, Ragnar had been one step ahead of everyone else all the time. This way, Ivar would be one step ahead of everyone else too. There was not a single soul in Kattegat Ivar didn't know vital information about. Like the butcher who was having an affair with the daughter of his rival. The girl was barely half his age and Ivar could only assume that he was deriving some sort of sick pleasure from it when he would fuck that poor girl from behind like a dog right behind her father’s house. Then there was the wife of the baker who was carrying another man’s child under her bosom and kept it a secret from her husband that none of his children were actually his - or the young woman who was making her money pleasuring strangers in the woods where she thought no one would see it while she acted like the perfect daughter in front of her parents.

There was only one person in the whole of Kattegat Ivar had no dirt on and it was simultaneously the same person he knew now more intimately than anyone else. The only secret he knew about his good bishop was the secret that they shared. Still, he watched how Heahmund moved across the town square like a cat, helping with whatever Bjorn told him to do. A shiver ran down his spine as he watched him wipe the sweat off his brow at the hard work. Bjorn was not holding back on him, that much was certain. He was minutely finding new laborious tasks for the Christian prisoner as if he knew what had transpired between Ivar and him and wanted to punish him for it. Then again, if one of his brothers would know, they would have killed Heahmund already. 

However, since he watched the man, it did not escape him how Heahmund approached him after a while, sweat glistening in the light of the late morning sun on his forehead, his crystal blue eyes like daggers as he zeroed in on Ivar. A part of him wanted to sink to the ground and make his retreat to annoy one of his brothers but that would look like he would be running away and there was no reason for him to run away. 

“I don't assume we are going to talk about what happened.” Heahmund’s voice had been a comfort to him lately - much more so than he was willing to admit to anyone and especially to Heahmund - but now it brought him great pain and he couldn't quite pinpoint why. The bishop paused right in front of him, crossing his arms as if he was trying to block him out while he was the one who had come to break the silence between them. The same silence that Ivar had nurtured ever since he returned to their camp that fateful night and laid back down between his brothers.

“There is nothing to talk about,” He replied, keeping his voice steady but flashing him a dark grin. “We found pleasure in each other. There is nothing else to say to that.”

“And yet you keep avoiding me like the plague,” Heahmund replied.

“I am not avoiding you. How am I avoiding you? See, I am sitting right here talking to you. If I would be avoiding you, I would have run away. Should you not be doing repentance somewhere for your sins now anyway, dear Bishop?” Ivar mocked and clasped his fingers tighter around the edge of the bench he was sitting upon as if to steady himself. “Should you not be on your knees praying to be forgiven for what you did with me - for fornicating with me in the dirt, in the forest, like animals?” Heahmund’s brows furrowed in anger in response to Ivar’s words, his lips became a tight line. Interesting. “I am surprised that you seek me out like this without combusting into flames. You have been touched by a heathen, Bishop. You have been kissed by a heathen, _fucked_ a heathen. Quick now, maybe Jesus can still forgive you.”

“I never said that I was not a sinner, Ivar,” The bishop hissed close to his ear as he dared to lean in, his smell filling Ivar’s nose and reminding him entirely too much of how the bishop had kissed him, how he had dragged his lips down his body. The moment was gone before Ivar realized it as Heahmund turned away from him again to continue his work. Bjorn was, after all, an unforgiving and harsh master - at least towards Heahmund. Ivar had ordered Heahmund to follow Bjorn’s orders after they returned home - his last words to the man until now. He had told him that he was tired of seeing his face and Heahmund had looked at him like he wanted to break a vase over his head. Maybe he was a little childish - but since when was that news to anyone?

The truth was that the night in the forest was still haunting him every waking hour and when he would sleep, he would replay it over and over in his dreams. He could still feel the ghost of Heahmund’s lips, of his touch, of the way he had felt inside of him, of his movements, and the intense lust all that had made him feel. Almost he would have vomited again right here in the middle of Kattegat for everyone to see and this time there would be no seasickness as an excuse for his odd behavior. 

“Trouble in paradise?” Hvitserk approached him with a shit-eating grin and a couple of dead rabbits slung over his shoulder. He had not realized that Hvitserk had left to go hunting in the woods. Then again, he had been visiting Floki earlier and had spent almost the entirety of the morning with Floki and Helga. Before Uppsala, he had asked his old friend to make something for him so that he would be able to go into battle with his brothers and Floki had not disappointed him. Ivar still felt the rush he had experienced sitting in the chariot and riding through the woods almost as if he was flying.

“What?” He asked with a sigh as his brother walked over to him and sat down on the wooden bench that Ivar was occupying. The smell of the blood of the dead animals was almost overwhelming for a second but Hvitserk smacked his right leg and startled him out of his thoughts.

“You and the Bishop.”

“What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything,” Hvitserk chuckled. “It is just that you treat him like he does not exist since we returned from Uppsala. Before that, you seemed quite close.”

“We are not _close_ ,” Ivar scoffed. “He is a Christian - my prisoner.”

“And yet you spent more time with him lately than with any of us.”

“Have I?” 

Of course, he knew that his brother was right. He had spent a lot of time with the bishop. Too much time, perhaps. No, not perhaps. He had spent too much time with Heahmund. This wretched Christian had managed to get into his head and twist his thoughts. Otherwise, what occurred between them in the woods would have never happened. He would never have allowed it. However, Heahmund had looked at him as if he saw more than a weak cripple in him. Heahmund had looked at him as if he was the same as everyone else, perhaps even an equal to Heahmund. And Ivar, although he was ashamed to admit it, had allowed this to get to his head. Was he this easy to manipulate? He had always prided himself on being a manipulator. To wake up and realize that he had been the one who had been manipulated - by a Christian priest of all people - was humiliating. He had spread his legs for this man like a wanton whore and if anyone had caught them in the act … If one of his brothers would have caught them in the act… 

“Listen, I’m not even pretending to understand what's going on between you guys,” Hvitserk then said with a lopsided smile pulling on his lips. Hvitserk and he had never been particularly close before England but ever since he came back, he had spent more time with his berserker of a brother. Hvitserk, he had come to learn, was just as fiercely protective as Ubbe was but he showed it differently. Sometimes it was easier to talk to Hvitserk about certain things. He would trust Ubbe with everything, tell him the most humiliating things if it meant his big brother would help him, but when it came to Hvitserk, his big brother never really seemed surprised or shocked about anything that would come out of Ivar’s mouth. He would be able to tell Hvitserk that he had fucked a horse and his brother would shrug, pat his back, and say ‘alright then’. “I mean, if it was for me, the guy would have been drawn and quartered twice over. He might not have harmed you with his own two hands but he might as well have. And yet you brought him here and even took him with you to our most sacred place. Clearly, there is something going on that you are not telling me - or anyone.”

“Maybe I hoped to show him the error of his ways?” Ivar grinned. “Maybe I hoped to convert him if he is in the presence of the Gods?”

“Ah, so you wanted to repay him for trying to convert you.”

“Maybe,” he chuckled quietly with a small shake of his head. They both knew that this was ridiculous. The bishop would never be swayed. In a way, that was exactly what he was admiring about him too. “Maybe I just wanted to show him that our Gods could as well co-exist.”

“And maybe,” Hvitserk said and patted his shoulder before getting up. “You just like the guy.”

※※※※※※※

Drums tore the night apart, singing and dancing and the sounds of the Oud being played. The heathens celebrated again. Mead was flowing in streams, the mouth-watering smell of roasted chicken and rabbit wafted through the entire town and yet Heahmund was inside Ivar’s house and Ivar was with him, sitting in the dark instead of celebrating with his brothers, who were undoubtedly enjoying themselves. Kattegat was bursting at its seams as it hosted once more the great heathen army ready to set sail to England. Tomorrow they would leave Kattegat and sail into an unknown future. 

“Are you glad?” Ivar asked from where he was sitting near the fire while Heahmund was staring out the window. “To go home?”

“Of course I am,” Heahmund said as he saw little use in lying to the young heathen. Ivar would look through any lie he could possibly tell him anyway and since Ivar was almost painfully honest to him most of the time, he had no reason to not repay him the same courtesy. 

“Because you will be closer to your God?”

“There is only _one_ God.” Ivar chuckled from where he was sitting but he did not look at Heahmund. He had a fur around his shoulders, shivering in the cold air. The nights were still unfriendly and cold and Ivar tended to get cold quicker than others due to his lack of mobility. Heahmund was used to the sight of Ivar burying himself under a mountain of blankets and furs at night by now - and Ivar would not allow him to shiver through the nights either. From the start, he had made sure that Heahmund would have at least one or two furs to find comfort in at night. Of course, Heahmund realized that Ivar was just trying to show him how much more civilized they were compared to the treatment he had experienced in the dungeon at Lindisfarne. 

“You still believe that? Even after you went to Uppsala?”

“ _Especially_ after Uppsala,” Heahmund replied quickly. “All I have seen there was bloodshed and the worst of human nature put on display for everyone to see.” His words pulled a sigh out of Ivar’s throat but it did not sound annoyed or exhausted. It was, in a way, a strangely fond sound Ivar was making. 

“And yet you indulged in it freely later when we were in the woods.”

They were talking in circles but at least they were talking. Heahmund hadn't realized it before but during the weeks Ivar had avoided him and given him into Bjorn’s hands, it had become quite clear to Heahmund how direly he needed the young prince and how desperate a man got for a friendly conversation when all he received was hateful glances and snarled insults. Ivar’s brothers wouldn't let any opportunity slide to insult him or threaten him with any kind of violence. If he were less of a man, he would ask Ivar if he hadn't liked what they had done in the woods. He knew enough, however, to know that he had enjoyed it quite a bit. Maybe he was not the only one battling the demon of regret. It was hard to fathom, almost impossible, that Ivar might feel regret for anything he was doing in his life. He always seemed to take life to its fullest, indulging in the pleasures it had to offer without regret or shame. A long time ago, he would have envied him for that.

“What are your plans when you travel to England?”

“Dear Bishop,” Ivar purred and Heahmund was powerless against the shiver that ran down his spine at the sound. “You will understand that I cannot disclose that to you.”

At last, Ivar turned his head enough to look at him over his shoulder. A crooked smile stretched over his face and Heahmund could not help but mirror it as if they were sharing some kind of joke that only the two of us would ever fully understand. The moment did not last long, however, as Ivar turned back towards the fire. Immediately, Heahmund felt a sense of cold wash through him, maybe even sadness that the young man could so easily tear his eyes away from him. After a second, Heahmund too looked back out of the window. The moon was full again. A month had passed since Uppsala. How long ago had he come here to this wretched place? It seemed like years and now that going home seemed so near, Heahmund felt like home would forever remain out of reach. 

“And there appeared a great wonder in Heaven, a woman clothed with the sun, and the moon beneath her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars,” he said evenly, his eyes focused on the moon shining down on the heathen feast as if to give its blessing to these ungodly festivities. 

“Who is the woman?” Ivar asked from his spot by the fire. Yes, talking to him felt good - and still, Heahmund craved nothing more than to learn what had compelled Ivar to avoid him for almost a whole month now. He knew, of course, that he would probably never get that answer he wanted.

“The Virgin. Mary, mother of our God, Jesus Christ.”

“If she was a virgin, how could she be a mother?”

“It was a miracle.”

Ivar snorted behind him but by now Heahmund had learned to ignore his blasphemy. “I would say so.”

“Are there not many miraculous things in your faith?” Heahmund asked as he turned away from the window again to look at the young man. “Like the serpent whose body holds in the sea?”

“That is not a miracle,” Ivar replied, staring at him out of those big blue eyes that more than ever seemed like those of a child. “That is true.”

“Ah,” Heahmund breathed but the way Ivar spoke told him that he fully believed those stupid tales which he had been fed all his life. Like a child. Unable to see the world for what it really was. Ivar was saying he could see his Gods but he was being blinded by the lies he had been fed.

“One day Thor was fishing and hooked the serpent by mistake. And the two of them, they fought an almighty battle.”

“I can imagine,” Heahmund shot back with a sardonic smile to match the contempt in his voice before a chuckle finally slipped out. He was not surprised that Ivar joined him in that. 

“The moon is a woman,” Ivar then said, his voice smooth as silk just like it had been in that night in the woods and how it would only ever sound when they were alone. It had taken Heahmund a while to realize that Ivar was different when he was around his brothers - more guarded and controlled, perhaps. At some point, Heahmund had realized that Ivar was desperate to look like he was in control of his body and everything that happened around him when he was with his older brothers, that he tried to appear strong and capable, that he was trying to prove himself to them. For some reason, however, Ivar did not seem to think that this was necessary when he was alone with Heahmund. “That's true. But not a woman you can trust. A devious woman. A woman who drives men insane. She promises them her love. And her favors, but then she changes her mind, cheats on them, goes with someone else. Do you understand what I’m thinking?”

“You’re thinking I can't be trusted,” Heahmund answered calmly and slowly stepped away from the window, closer to where Ivar was sitting. “That my promises are worthless. That I will be as fickle as the moon.”

“In my experience, it happens,” Ivar said with a shrug that should appear nonchalant but could not quite mask the pain in his words. There was a sadness in his voice that Heahmund could not quite grasp but he saw the glint of steel in Ivar’s hands that he had not noticed until now - the ax he so expertly knew how to throw. 

The indication was clear. Ivar would be able to kill him right here and now and he wouldn't even need to get up or bridge the distance that remained between them. He thought of the guards again that Ivar had killed. Within seconds he had ended two lives and Heahmund had been helpless to do anything about it. Perhaps this had all been Ivar’s game from the start. Toying with him like a cat would toy with a mouse, conversing with him like with a friend, taking him to Uppsala, even going as far as giving his body to Heahmund all that only to lure him into a false sense of security, lure him into the belief that he would allow him to see England again. Well, Hvitserk had warned him about Ivar and Heahmund could not say that he had not known that he was dangerous from the very beginning. 

“But if you kill me now,” Heahmund then said, showing Ivar that he was acknowledging the possibility, that he had noticed the weapon in his hand, that he realized that he would be unable to do anything against it if Ivar would decide to kill him. The cards were on the table. “You deny yourself the pleasure of proving yourself right.”

Shortly Ivar’s lips quirked upwards in a small smile as he put the ax to the side again. “Heahmund,” He said softly and his voice alone made shivers run down his spine once again. It was the first time, it seemed, that the prince actually said his name. “I do not _want_ to be right. I want to believe in you.” Those were the words of a young man who had been hurt too many times in his life by those he had trusted. 

“I want to believe that in this world there is someone who never lies, cheats, or compromises. Who is always noble.” He just stared at the young man for a moment, contemplating his face and the sincere hope in those blue eyes. “When you came for me … _that_ night and brought me into your rooms, I was afraid you would take what those bastards had already taken. But then you washed my wounds and fed me and showed me such kindness. I thought, maybe I have found that person. That person who is always noble, who shows kindness even to his sworn enemy, who lowers himself to help even someone like me - a cripple, his enemy. I am not so sure anymore now.”

Everything seemed always to come back to that night for them. That night when Heahmund had made a decision to follow the example of his Lord and take a sinner, a heathen into his arms. It was that night that seemed to have changed the course of his life. Had he not done that, had he left Ivar in his cell, bleeding, scared, and in pain, maybe he would be dead already. Surely, the young man would not have spared his life then.

“I am the one, Ivar.” The words slipped out easily and for a moment Heahmund thought that he actually meant them. For a moment, he _wanted_ to mean them. “You can believe in me.”

There was the hint of a smile and hurt flashing through Ivar’s eyes all the same as Ivar turned his head to stare into the fire again and muttered, almost to himself: “We’ll see.”

A part of him felt as if he had just sold his soul to the devil. And if he had, then what reason was there for him not to bridge the distance between them and indulge in their delicious sin once again? Even though Ivar wasn’t looking at him right now, he walked over to him slowly and noticed how Ivar subtly stiffened at the sound of his footfalls behind him.

“Will you sleep in my bed?” Ivar asked out of the blue, still staring into the flames, his voice low. “Just for tonight?”

“Yes.” If he would burn in hell anyway, what reasons was there to pretend that he did not desire Ivar? That he did not crave his attention and longed for his touch?

It was rougher this time as he took Ivar to bed. He picked him up without thinking twice about it to carry him over to the bed and already Ivar’s teeth were sinking into his neck. Now that he knew what to expect and what it would feel like, Ivar seemed insatiable, no longer the confused and uncertain young man that Heahmund had seen in the woods.

Over the noise of the feast outside, Heahmund was thrusting into him with vigor. There was no need to muffle their sounds either this time. Ivar allowed his cries of pleasure to slip out freely, not holding back on him as he tried meeting Heahmund’s thrusts with his own hips. Ivar was like putty in his hands, allowing him to twist him into the positions he wanted as he was pounding into him with no restraint.

As they later lay together in Ivar’s bed between his furs and woven blankets, he felt like a young man again but without the guilt and shame wash over him that he had experienced the first time he had fucked another man. This time Ivar didn't get up and away from him to wash himself clean from their sin. He stayed beside him, resting on his stomach, his back exposed to the light of the fire, the scars the guards had whipped into his skin glistening in the dim light. Heahmund thought about the statues he had seen in Rome and in some parts of England, left over by the Romans after their fall. Gods and Goddesses chiseled out of white marble. Ivar looked like one of their Gods right now how he laid there and, at the same time, he looked like Christ after his torture with the scars on his back. 

Heahmund found himself unable to resist as he leaned over him and trailed kisses down Ivar’s spine, his own, strong hands cupping Ivar’s waist. The young man hummed under the caress before a chuckle escaped him. 

“You are insatiable, dear Bishop,” He whispered into his pillow, sleepy by the time the feast ended. Not once had they left the house tonight. After that first kiss they shared earlier, they had been unable to keep their hands off each other. Now they were both tired and sore and exhausted and still, Heahmund’s lips found their way to Ivar’s skin relentlessly.

“I am just a sinner,” Heahmund replied with a grin as he reached the end of Ivar’s spine and brought his teeth down into the left cheek of Ivar’s ass to startle a yelp out of the other man, followed by a small, easy laugh.

“Okay, okay! Come up here again, sinner!” Ivar huffed and Heahmund complied, remaining on his side, his head propped up to look at Ivar as the other man slightly turned his head to look at him. As Ivar looked at him, however, there was, once more this certain sense of sadness clinging to his eyes. There was something Ivar wasn't telling him. And yet, even if Ivar would decide to kill him in his sleep, he would gladly take it. The more time he spent with the young Viking, the more and more his soul would get corrupted. He could feel it in his bones and he was helpless against it. This night was only more proof of that.

“When we go to England,” Ivar then said quietly. “I want you to fight for me. I will go into battle myself but I … I can admit that I am limited in what I can actually do on the battlefield. I will not be able to run into battle like my brothers and if I get thrown off my chariot I have no real chance of survival, I know that. My brothers do not want me to fight. They want me to stay out of reach, overlook, supervise, make sure our plan will work. But I am a Viking, Heahmund. It is in my blood to fight. I want to make the Gods proud so that they will greet me in Valhalla when I die. Maybe I will die in battle soon. I do not know what fate the Gods have decided for me yet. But I know that I want you at my side in battle.”

It would have been different if Ivar had asked him to fight against his brothers or any other heathen. He would have gladly done it. This, however, was different. Fighting against Christians? Fighting against his king and princes? Ivar knew that he couldn't do it and yet he asked him to.

“I won’t,” Heahmund replied even though he might just sign his death sentence with it. Still, he extended his hand and dragged his fingers through Ivar’s hair as it had come loose during their tryst. “I can not fight against my own people, against fellow Christians.”

“I understand that,” Ivar hummed solemnly, a small smile tugging on his lips. “You will die then,” He added quietly. “I can not take you to England and … let you live or let you go.”

“I know.” He wasn’t afraid of being killed by Ivar’s hands. Right now he knew that Ivar would not kill him in this bed during his sleep. He would kill him on English soil so that he might go to Heaven then. It was a small mercy and for a second Heahmund wondered if he would have granted the boy the same mercy. He moved to press a kiss to Ivar’s shoulder.

“It will be quick,” Ivar promised and Heahmund decided to believe him. So far, Ivar had never lied to him, why would he start now? This young man who had not yet learned the benefits of lying to his enemies or friends, who was so painfully honest to him at times, who so openly lied to his brothers every day for the littlest things. He was an enigma to Heahmund.

“Maybe you are a test sent by God,” Heahmund muttered to himself as he laid down again and Ivar responded only in a low chuckle.

“We are both being tested, Heahmund.”

※※※※※※※

As they set sail for England this time, it was without joy or excitement for the adventures to come for Ivar. This time, he already knew how wretched the Christians were, he already knew what waited for him across the sea - and he knew what was expecting Aethelwulf and his ilk when Ivar the boneless would set foot on English soil again. Vengeance was giving him wings as he sat at the bow of his ship as seagulls were crowing high above him.

The Bishop sat leaned against the mast, clad in his old black armor, his face unreadable as always as he was sailing towards his certain death. Ivar wondered what Heahmund thought at this moment. Was he afraid? No. He was a great warrior and if his God didn't want him, Odin would open Valhalla for him surely.

**-End of Chapter 12-**


	13. Chapter 13

The first step on English soil almost brought him to his knees. Dread. It was dread that filled him as he stepped off that boat and helped Ivar out not a second later. Almost he wished that the young man would have left him behind in Kattegat, even with the ever-looming danger of being killed by those heathens without Ivar’s protection. At least then, he thought, he wouldn't have needed to bear witness to how the great heathen army landed on English shores to raid English villages and cities, to rape, plunder, and burn everything to the ground. Ivar Ragnarsson returned on the wings of vengeance and his revenge on the English people would be brutal and bloody - and it would be Heahmund’s fault for not killing him when he had the chance.

He could have ended Ivar’s life at any point since he had first met the young man. And even if it would have meant his death, had he slit his throat in Kattegat, he should have done it and embraced death, for he would have known that he spared so many good Christians from the same fate. Ivar was the weight of the guilt he was carrying on his back. He had failed the English people, his fellow Christians, and he would die before he would get any chance of helping those who needed it. In the end, at the end of his life, he had not even been able to show Ivar the truth and the light in Jesus Christ. If he had at least been able to convert the youngest son of famed legend Ragnar Lothbrok, then he would have accomplished _something_ for God and might even be worthy of sitting beside him in Heaven. Now, however, he knew that he would end up in the endless burning flames of hell to be tortured for all eternity. 

“Dear Bishop” Ivar’s voice was sweet as honey as his lips moved close to Heahmund’s ear. “what I would give to know your thoughts.”

“Only God can know my thoughts,” Heahmund replied without thinking and ignored the way Ivar’s hot breath danced across the shell of his ear as he let a low chuckle slip out from between his full lips.

“I am jealous of your God then.” Ivar’s reply took him a little by surprise. Then again, the boy rarely lied and did not seem too prideful to hide what he was feeling when he saw no gain in hiding his emotions.

“Envy is a sin.”

“I _am_ a sinner, dear Bishop, at least in the eyes of your God - and so are you.”

“Everyone is a sinner until they confess and ask for forgiveness in Christ.”

“Have you asked Christ for forgiveness?”

“Many times.”

“And if I would do the same … I would go to Heaven when I die?”

“There is at least a chance.”

“And I would see you there then?” That question gave him pause. He couldn't quite decide if the question was meant to be taken seriously or not - as it was so often the case when talking to this heathen. He wondered if Ivar was actually hoping to be reunited with him in death as that was the only chance for them to truly be together or if it was something else entirely.

“Perhaps” Heahmund replied calmly before he put Ivar down onto a barrel that had been placed there by one of the many Viking warriors that were unloading the ships and setting up camp around them. Nobody seemed to pay them much attention. “Perhaps not” He added with a smirk only reserved for the unruly son of Ragnar. “It all depends on how you live your life after you asked for forgiveness, Ivar. Asking for forgiveness is only the first step on the long road to self-discovery and repentance.”

“And how would you recommend me to live my life?” There it was again, that mischievous twinkle he had come to adore. It had been there from the start, from the first moment Heahmund had laid eyes on him. However, all those months ago, he had been certain that Ivar’s mischievousness would be much more of a nuisance than it had turned out to be. In fact, he had wanted to break this unruly, impish streak the boy had. Now, he could not even imagine a world without Ivar’s lopsided Cheshire grin or those sparkling eyes that always seemed to promise danger if Heahmund would make just one wrong step. Theirs was a game of chess, an intricate dance only they knew the rules to.

“Pious,” He said with a chuckle and after a second or two of consideration. “With a cross around your neck, in the service of God to repent for your sins - which are bountiful.”

“You would want me to become a priest?” Ivar asked incredulously, his brows shooting up in surprise but the smile never quite left his eyes or his lips. 

“A monk, I would imagine - maybe with a vow of silence to keep that sharp tongue of yours in check.”

“You liked that sharp tongue not too long ago,” Ivar replied, his grin becoming even sharper. “Wouldn't it be a shame to lock it away? No, dear Bishop, I really can't see me wearing dresses and worshipping some God on my knees in a cold, drafty church somewhere. Although, I think my father would find it amusing, after stealing a monk so many years ago, that his son would become one. Who knows? Maybe I would be stolen too then. As you can see, it would not be safe for a poor cripple like me to become a monk - it seems to be a very hazardous occupation.”

He couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him with a breath. It also didn't escape him that they were being watched now. Even though most of the warriors did not seem to pay them much mind, the same could not be said for Ivar’s brothers. Bjorn was helping to set up the tents with Ubbe and Hvitserk and had been looking over at them for the entirety of their exchange now. So, Heahmund straightened his back and slightly bowed his neck in a silent nod before he left Ivar where he was to help these heathens set up camp in his homeland. As long as Ivar had not killed him, he was a prisoner and might as well make himself useful until he might get a chance to escape. 

And still, he felt Ivar’s eyes burn holes into his back as he walked away, the feeling sending shivers down his spine. For just a moment, he allowed himself to entertain the thought of whether or not it would really be so bad if he stayed by Ivar’s side. 

※※※※※※※

“The bishop” Bjorn’s eyes bore into him, expecting him to flinch away. He didn't give him the satisfaction. Ivar might not be as physically strong as Bjorn and he would never be as tall as Bjorn, people would never look at him with as much adoration as they looked at Bjorn with. However, Ivar had decided very early in life that he would never flinch away from his brothers, that he would never submit to them, that he would never cower in front of them. As long as his heart would be beating in his chest, he would keep his head up, his chin high, his back straight and his shoulders squared. His brothers were already always looking down on him. The only thing Ivar could do was face them head-on without fear, even though they all knew his darkest secret, his worst shame. He was aware that his brothers were holding a deadly weapon over his head now with that knowledge and there was not a day that went by in which he was not thinking about it. At the moment, he did not imagine one of them so speak about his disgrace but maybe in a few months or years. Maybe they would find each other being at odds and then one of them would spill the beans. Bjorn, Ivar thought, was beside Sigurd the most likely candidate for this. “What are you going to do with him? I do not assume that he will be fighting on our side.”

“Do not worry about him, Brother.” Ivar shrugged and lifted his horn in a mock salute at his oldest brother before he took a sip from his mead. Sweat clung to his brows and his brothers did not seem to fare any better. With spring warmth had returned to the world and even though it would be many months until summer would be here, the work they had been doing all day had been exhausting and tedious. Sure, Ivar could not do as much as his brothers but he had still helped wherever he could help. Now, he sat under a canopy of tarp with his brothers for a short break. The smell of a hearty stew was wafting through camp as some of the women had started cooking right away. Feeding an army was not an easy task, after all. “I will kill him, of course. He will become a sacrifice before the war.”

“How are you going to do it?” Ubbe inquired and as Ivar looked at him he could tell that his brother didn't believe him. It irked him a little to see that spark of amusement in Ubbe’s eyes. Of all his brothers, undoubtedly, Ubbe knew him best. Knowing that sometimes left him with an uneasy sort of feeling in the pit of his stomach. Ivar had always prided himself on his genius and the fact the normal people would not be able to make much sense out of him. To most people, he was an enigma wrapped in a riddle. Not to his brother Ubbe, though. At least not now. 

“I thought about crucifying him but that would be a great honor for him,” Ivar drawled and leaned forward onto the table a bit more. “Perhaps we could burn him alive - then again, I want his death to be as prolonged and brutal as possible and I want our enemy to know. Heahmund is an important figure here in England. We should make an example out of him to strike fear into the hearts of the Saxons.”

“The Saxons like to hang, draw, and quarter their people” Hvitserk helpfully offered. “I can imagine that this is quite brutal of a death.”

“Then it is decided,” Ivar grinned, toasting to Hvitserk who clinked his horn with Ivar’s before gulping down on his own mead. “We will hang, draw, and quarter the bishop and put his head on a pike when we are done with him. But now we should discuss strategy. They will be prepared for our return and by tomorrow, they will know that we are here to take revenge - that _I_ am here to take revenge. Prince Aethelwulf ordered my torture and he has to know that he has to pay for that. In my opinion, we should not attack them like we usually would. They expect us to fight in a certain way now that they have already made acquaintance with that last time our army was here. So, why should we do that? Why don't we plan to fight in a different way and surprise them?”

“Our warriors won’t understand what's happening,” Hvitserk said. “We fight in the shield wall - that's how we fight.”

“But we have a big army now - and they probably have a bigger army now too, Hvitserk. And they have seen this army fight in the shield wall before. They will know what to expect, they will be able to use that against us. We can not fight in the same way.”

“Why do you want to change the tactics?” Bjorn asked at last, at least considering his opinion for once. Months ago, Bjorn would have outright ignored his ideas, thinking that he knew better than Ivar just by the principle of being older than he was. Ivar was used to his brothers not taking him seriously. And why? Just because he was the youngest? His father’s words still rang in his head. _Everyone will always underestimate you. You must make them pay for it._ Even his own brothers had always underestimated him and so far, Ivar was unable to tell if they still did. 

“Do you want to win, Brother?” He countered with his brows raised and a wicked smile playing on his face. As Bjorn didn't give in, Ivar softly shook his head and decided to drop the act instead. “Listen,” He said softly and turned his body in his seat more towards his brother who was sitting next to him on a stool that seemed dwarfed just by Bjorn’s size. Immediately as he turned his full attention on Bjorn, he noticed a small shift in his big brother’s expression. He seemed more open, all of a sudden, his hands and arms relaxing slightly as he clasped his cup with both hands. “as soon as our scouts return with news from the enemy, you will come with me. Let's investigate the battlefield. Perhaps instead of a narrow and small space, we should stretch the battlefield to a larger area, many miles! Use their landscape! Treacherous hills! Woods!” 

The moment those words slipped his mouth, Bjorn seemed to build up that same stubborn, self-righteous, self-important wall again as he tore his eyes away from Ivar. Since he had apparently lost Bjorn’s attention, Ivar allowed his eyes to wander across the faces of his other brothers. Hvitserk seemed at least interested. Ubbe seemed concerned but then again, Ubbe seemed always concerned. Sigurd’s expression he could not quite decipher yet. For another long moment, Bjorn didn't look at him but held his gaze lowered in silent contemplation. Ubbe, however, slowly nodded in agreement and Hvitserk and Sigurd exchanged a glance and a grin. He had won. At least over the sons of Aslaug. The real challenge was to win over Bjorn Ironside. 

“What do you say?”

“If it works, it is a good plan. If it doesn’t, it is a bad plan.” 

Ivar scoffed at those words, knowing that he had finally won against his brother’s thick head. It was the first time in his seventeen years on this earth that Bjorn Ironside yielded to his will. For once, they took him seriously enough to at least consider his ideas. _Finally_. And all it had needed was a little torture at the hand of those Christians, it seemed, for Ivar could not imagine a world in which Bjorn would have given his plan even the slightest bit of consideration had he not experienced such horrors at the hands of those Saxons. In a way, it irked him to know that Bjorn was probably only willing to listen to him because he felt pity for him. Yet, a win's a win and now Ivar had the chance to prove himself not only to his brothers but their entire army. Bjorn got up from his seat and then clasped him on the shoulder. Without another word, his brother walked off to return to work. There was still so much to do and they had to be careful now that they were deep in the territory of their enemy. Ubbe patted him on the back before he too left him to go about his work.

Feeling a sense of accomplishment, Ivar allowed himself to watch the hustle and bustle around him. The sun was slowly sinking on the horizon, night was soon to fall upon their camp and tomorrow the world would look different. Tomorrow by this time, Heahmund would no longer be at his side. The thought pained him more than it should and he refused to evaluate the feeling further as he knew that it would only serve to bring him more pain in the long run. 

So, instead, Ivar continued to help where he could help while limping through the camp on his crutches. Strength had returned to him but it still cost him enormous willpower to just keep upright. His right leg was completely useless but at least he didn't need to crawl through the mud. As night fell he was all the more exhausted though and went without the crutches to crawl into his tent. 

The bishop was already there, waiting for him - waiting for his inescapable death, perhaps. Not for the first time, Ivar felt like an executioner. It was a feeling that he liked, usually. It gave him a sense of power that he otherwise didn't have. Everyone always underestimated him. His brothers, the good people of Kattegat, their allies, the Saxons, even his own mother. He had to fight harder, be stronger, be angrier, be more ruthless, be more cunning than everyone around him because his brothers wouldn't even give him the time of day to truly listen to his ideas. The bishop, however, was different. In his presence, Ivar had never had the feeling of being lesser in any way, of being just a cripple and nothing but a cripple as if the fact that his legs were of little use negated his intelligence also. Of course, Heahmund had never looked at him like an equal either but it didn't bother him as much as it was just their different beliefs standing between him and Heahmund.

“Have you eaten, dear Bishop?” Ivar asked as he crawled into his tent. He knew that the warriors were looking at him and the bishop with raised brows. They were wondering why their enemy was still allowed to live and no answer Ivar would give them or his brothers would satisfy them.

“I prefer not to,” He said calmly. “If this is my last night on God’s green earth.”

“Hm,” Ivar hummed. “Maybe that is wise. Help me.” He waved at Heahmund to come over and the bishop followed. He knew it was stupid of him to think that Heahmund might feel for him with any sense of warmth just because they had lain together and still, he was convinced that Heahmund at least respected him. The bishop walked over and lifted him easily to help him sit on the bed inside his tent. 

“It was a long day,” Heahmund commented quietly his need for help, knowing that Ivar never asked for help when he could avoid it. 

“I am jealous of you,” Ivar confessed as he put his hand in Heahmund’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss. It was a dangerous game he was playing. His brothers could walk in on them every second now and still, he tasted the bishop’s lips greedily before pulling away with a smirk. “I want to be like you, dear Bishop. Strong … Whole … A great warrior. And because of that … I want you to fight for me in the upcoming battles.”

“You know that I can not do that, my Prince.” Heahmund’s voice remained soft, unbearably so, his eyes never losing that warmth that Ivar thought was reserved for him.

In a flash, Ivar had pulled the knife from his belt and pressed it against Heahmund’s heart, the tip pressing firmly into his armor. “I am the only thing keeping you alive, you know that,” He whispered but Heahmund didn't flinch. “My brothers want you dead … my warriors want you dead. If you will not fight in my name, they expect me to kill you - they demand me to kill you. I do not want to kill you, dear Bishop. You have done no harm to me. Not once have you raised your hand against me. You were kind and noble when I needed it the most and was at your mercy despite hating me. You were my captor. You could have tortured me yourself. You could have swung the whip yourself. You could have struck me down yourself. You could have done unspeakable things to me. You did not.”

“You didn't either,” Heahmund replied quietly.

“But you could not have known that.” Ivar grinned. Maybe there was a hint of desperation to his smile or to his words. Right now, however, he did not mind. This man who had seen him at his lowest still looked at him now with warmth in his eyes and would not flinch from his touch. “You could not have known what would happen to you. Will you fight for me? Against your people?”

“No,” Heahmund said again with a smile and Ivar pressed the blade harder against him. 

“I promised you a quick death,” Ivar then sighed. “But my brothers want to hang, draw, and quarter you. In the morning, at sunrise, you will be killed. Your death will be slow and excruciatingly painful. Except if you fight for me.”

“I won't,” Heahmund chuckled and leaned down again to steal another kiss from his lips. “And I don't fear my fate, Ivar. There is nothing you could say that would convince me to change my mind.”

“Not even if I promised you that you could build a church in Kattegat on our return?”

“We both know that I will not return to Kattegat, my Prince.”

“No,” Ivar breathed out as he, at last, took the knife away again, allowing it to fall onto his bed even as, briefly, the thought crossed his mind that Heahmund might very well use it against him. What difference would it make for the bishop to kill him now anyway when he was already facing certain death? “You probably won’t … So we should make your last night on earth count, should we not?”

“You are an incubus,” Heahmund chuckled. “A demon sent by the devil to lead me astray.”

“Is it working?” Ivar huffed against his lips but the only answer he received was another kiss, deeper this time, hungrier, the demand clear as Heahmund pushed him back onto the bed. Any other man would have lost his hands and his head for treating him like that. Heahmund, however, was not any man, and Ivar allowed him to push him back and climb on top of him. His touch had by now become familiar to him - so familiar that he was craving it whenever he didn't have it. Even to himself, it was unfathomable, unexplainable how he had gotten to the point where he would desire nothing but to be touched by another man like this. No, not any other man. Heahmund. Only Heahmund.

They lost their clothes in a matter of moments and, just as quickly, Heahmund was between his legs, all his patience forgone just at the sight of him sprawled out before him. If his brothers would walk in on them they would both be dead, Ivar knew that. Even if his brothers would not take his life for kin-slaying was an offense worthy of death, he would be dead in a different way to them - a man who so easily submitted to another. A perversion unbecoming of a son of Ragnar. The Gods might not judge but humans very well did and his brothers would judge him much more vigorously since they knew the horrors he had endured. And still, even with those thoughts in his head, he let his legs fall wide for his bishop as oil-slicked fingers breached the tight ring of muscle with practiced ease. Even at the fear of being judged by his kin, he allowed pleasure to sweep through him as Heahmund claimed him inch by inch.

He tried meeting Heahmund’s thrusts with his own hips as far as he could move them buried under the other man, lust filling his entire being and reducing him to nothing more than an animal rutting against its partner in their mutual quest for pleasure. He clawed at Heahmund’s back, leaving behind crescent marks and faint red lines. Surprise startled him as Heahmund suddenly sat back on Ivar’s narrow bed, pulling out of him completely. At his confused look, he only received a wicked grin from the priest. The way he sat there, his legs crossed underneath him, the invitation was clear, and Ivar bit back a small chuckle.

“What?” Heahmund grinned. “Do you think I am going to do all the work? If this is my last night on earth, you could at least lift some of the burden for me.”

“Careful, my dear Bishop,” Ivar grinned. “Or you’ll lose your tongue for that.”

“My tongue, my head, what does it matter? I have nothing left to lose.”

“You are right in that,” Ivar whispered. “And who would I be if I would refuse a dying man his last wish?”

He moved over to Heahmund like a snake and crawled into his lap. “You will need to help me, though, my poor Bishop,” He said as he sunk down on the man, his cock easily slipping back inside, resting his arms on Heahmund’s shoulders before he shoved his fingers into his black hair. It had gotten a little longer since the first time they had met, just like Ivar’s. He pulled at his hair before he reclaimed his mouth. Heahmund’s hand rested easily on his hips, his fingers digging into his flesh to help Ivar lift his hips. It was a new sense of pleasure that was flooding his body as he lowered himself back on Heahmund, his cock reaching deeper into him now in this position.

He was moving with little finesse for his lack of mobility but their pleasure was just the same as they moved against each other. He shuddered with lust as he tried to find support on Heahmund’s shoulders, determined to bring him to completion like this while Heahmund’s strong hands helped him along. As Heahmund finally reached his climax and released inside of him he felt no sense of shame about it, just lust shooting through him and helping him along to find his own release.

Sweat clung to their bodies like a blanket. His heart was still racing as they lay side by side, adrenalin flooding his system as if he had just fought a mighty battle. There were many things he wanted to say to the bishop but he chose silence instead. The camp was quiet around them and the blade of his knife gleamed in the light of the candles and promised of blood as it lay beside him on the bed. He could go against his brothers and just slit Heahmund’s throat now. He would be justified to do so. It was his right to do so. No one would blame him for it. It would be quick - Heahmund would barely feel anything.

"I don't want to see you suffer," he confessed silently as his fingers found the hilt of the blade and closed around it. 

"You do not have a choice." Heahmund’s voice was like velvet as he spoke.

"There is always a choice," He hissed and pressed the knife to Heahmund’s throat as he rolled on top of him in a flash. The bishop's eyes were full of warmth as he embraced death like he had embraced Ivar just moments before. "Go," Ivar then whispered as he leaned down to kiss him again. "The camp is asleep, the guards drunk. Go. Flee. Go back to your king so that we might meet on the battlefield."

Heahmund looked at him in confusion before Ivar rolled off of him again. He sat up straight, staring down on his useless legs as he put his back to Heahmund.

"Ivar-"

"Go now or I'll kill you," He breathed out.

"Your brothers-"

"I tell them that you said you would fight for me and that I believed you,” Ivar interrupted swiftly. “Then you snuck out and I could not stop you. I am only a helpless cripple, after all. How could I have stopped you?" 

He heard Heahmund move behind him, listened to Heahmund getting dressed in his black armor once more after he stood up from the bed. It seemed so easy to convince Heahmund to leave him. Not surprisingly so, of course. After all, what had he to offer to the good bishop that would make him want to stay by his side?

"Your sword," he said and pointed over his shoulder. Heahmund himself had carried the chest into the tent. "It is in my chest … take it. It is a magic sword and only reveals its magic to its owner. It is yours - it would be of no use to me."

He didn't look over his shoulder to watch his bishop retreat even though he knew that Heahmund would be able to kill him with ease now. He listened to Heahmund walking around, opening the chest and taking out his sword. As he came back to Ivar, he was almost expecting the bishop to strike him down in one swift move. Instead, he felt the press of lips against his shoulder and then against the side of his head.

"We will meet again," Heahmund promised silently as he removed himself from Ivar’s presence and his life. He breathed out a chuckle as he finally turned his head to watch the other man retreat. There was a second there as Heahmund opened the flap of the tent and turned to look at him again, in which he hoped, deeply hoped, that Heahmund would turn around and come back to bed, that Heahmund would agree to fight for him but then the bishop nodded, turned away and left as if he had never been a part of Ivar’s life.

※※※※※※※

Even as the new day broke, even after he had told his brothers his little tale of betrayed trusts and hopes, even as they were making their way through the thick woods of Wessex, Ivar still did not know what to feel or rather if he had made the right decision. He couldn't shake the fears that Heahmund might have manipulated him, that Heahmund made him do exactly what he wanted him to do. Was he, in the end, only one more pathetic little man starved for attention and touch? Had Heahmund so easily managed to sway him and gain his complete trust just by fucking him? Or had Heahmund been true to him? He would probably never know. Even if they would meet on the battlefield, he would never get the answer he longed to hear.

“You let him go, did you not?” Ubbe asked as they were taking a short break on a clearing. They had been riding for hours now and soon they would be close enough to their enemy to set up camp again. Tomorrow they would fight. 

“Who?”

Ubbe breathed out a chuckle. Ivar was sitting between the roots of a giant tree and Ubbe sat down beside him even as it meant sitting shoulder to shoulder, squeezing against his little brother and invading his personal space like only a brother would be allowed to without losing a limb. Ever since he had been saved by his brothers they were all a lot more affectionate towards him, a lot less hostile towards him, a lot less scared of him. So far, Ivar didn't know if he liked that development. It was all he had ever wanted as a child. His brothers’ love and affection, being taken seriously by them and seen as an equal. There was no joy in it though - not after what it had cost him to get to that point.

“So you did.” Ubbe nodded to himself. “I thought that you might let him go when we talked about killing him. I hope you made the right call. That will not change anything about the fact that I will rip him limb from limb the moment I see him on the battlefield.”

“He never laid a hand on me, Ubbe.”

“I do not care, little Brother,” Ubbe huffed. “It is of no importance to me or the others. I would like to know why you did it, though.”

“I do not know what you mean.” 

Again, Ubbe laughed softly and handed him the apple he had been eating. With a roll of his eyes, Ivar took the half-eaten apple and bit into it. It had always been easy to talk to Ubbe. He wouldn't pressure him to say or do anything he didn't want to say or do. He was not like Bjorn in that way. Ubbe would just allow him to keep his secrets and his silence, especially after his time in captivity. 

“You like him, don't you?” Ubbe then asked. “You do not have to answer, little Brother. I have seen you with him.”

“You have seen me with him?” His heart was racing and yet he kept his voice steady and calm, his tone even and his face relaxed. “I would like to know what you think you have seen.”

“I have seen how you talked to him, how you behaved around him. You behaved differently around him than around us.”

“Well, he is not one of my brothers, Ubbe. He is a stranger.”

“You trusted him to fight for you and he betrayed your trust. He left.”

“He left indeed,” He sighed. “I expected nothing less of the good bishop. He is a proud man and he would have never fought for heathens like us.”

“So this was all a rouse?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Ivar shrugged and briefly leaned his head against Ubbe’s shoulder. “I admit that I did enjoy our conversations, I enjoyed his sharp mind and quick wit, I enjoyed arguing with him about his silly God.”

“Did you enjoy more than just that?” Ubbe huffed, the insinuation clear in his brother’s voice. “Did you maybe allow him too much leniency? He was your prisoner, yet you treated him more like a friend than you treat your own family.”

“Are you implying that the good bishop got into my head? That he played me for a fool so that I would let him go?”

“I am not implying anything, little Brother.” Ubbe leaned his head against Ivar’s at that. For a moment they were children yet again, lying together in the same bed during a stormy night. “We both know I am not nearly as smart as you are, right?” It was a little jab at him and still, he wanted to throw something at Ubbe for this comment. “I am just saying that _if_ he has been playing you for a fool, he succeeded.”

“And, big Brother, have you considered that maybe I have been playing _him_ for a fool? That it was _me_ who had been manipulating the bishop?”

“And have you considered that maybe you have been playing each other for a fool?” Ubbe snorted before he got up from his seat. “No matter which is the case, Ivar, I hope you will not regret whatever you shared with the bishop.”

“If you worry that I have told him anything about our battle strategy you can rest assured that I did not.” Ubbe shot him another amused look and not for the first time Ivar wondered if his brother knew more than he let on. He and Heahmund had not been exactly careful, after all. Even if there was the possibility that his brothers would not judge him for sleeping with another man, they would certainly not agree with his choice of partner in this matter. Not that Ivar would care much about their approval in this regard. No, something else was bothering him about the possibility of his brothers knowing about him and Heahmund and it was the same thing that had made him shy away from the man after their first night together in the woods, something that was still bothering him now but could not quite put into words. 

Soon, Ivar thought, he would meet Heahmund on the battlefield and when he would, he might just find out what Heahmund truly felt for him.

**-End of Chapter 13-**


	14. Chapter 14

His strategy had proven successful. His brothers had been unsure at first, not certain if they could actually trust his ideas. They knew that they had won, however, when they heard Aethelwulf scream at his soldiers to save their lives. Ivar didn't get to join the fray during the battle and he didn't see his bishop either. They should have tried to capture Aethelwulf but in the end, his brothers allowed him to flee. They had enjoyed putting the fear of the old gods in the man and now Aethelwulf was running back with his tail between his legs. 

As their army finally reached King Ecbert’s castle, they found it deserted and although he should find joy in their success like their warriors and his brothers did, it only furthered Ivar’s anger as he realized that Aethelwulf and his family had managed to escape just because his brothers had not acted quicker on the battlefield and allowed him to get away. Ivar watched with badly veiled frustration how their warriors and three of his brothers were ransacking the castle and the other buildings, setting flame to everything that burned while he remained outside in the courtyard, sitting in his chariot. Only Bjorn had remained at his side, bored by the commotion and seemingly uninterested in raiding the castle for its riches. 

Not even this destruction served to spark joy inside of his heart. He couldn't stand being here at this place where he had last been with his father. He remembered the slight drizzle of rain as he had been placed on that cart that should have delivered him to the sea where a boat should have been waiting for him. He remembered his father lying in the dirt as he had been attacked by Aethelwulf’s men. His father’s voice still seemed to echo from the stone walls of the castle, calling out to his youngest child. He felt uneasy sitting in the midst of all of this while the army was laying waste to their surroundings and agitated as another thought inevitably entered his mind.

Where was Heahmund? Had he returned to Sherborne? Had he gone back to Lindisfarne? Was he at Aethelwulf’s side? Was he with the sons of the Prince? Was he protecting the king? Had he just run as far away as possible to never see Ivar again? Had he really been so blind and allowed Heahmund to get so close to him so that the bishop would find a way to escape with his life? Ivar had always deemed himself clever and a great manipulator. He knew exactly when to play along, when to give people what they wanted and submit to them. He had learned when to be forceful and dominant and when to be meek and coy. He had learned when to throw insults at someone to get his way and when to compliment them. He had learned all of that from his mother who herself had been a capable manipulator with words as sweet as honey. His mother had not had the same genius mind that his father and Ivar possessed but she had taught Ivar the art of fake compromises and of gaining other people's favor and trust. And yet, as he sat here and waited for his brothers to return and make a new plan, he could not shrug off the feeling that this time he had been the one who had been manipulated. 

His eyes caught on his brother at last, tired of all the cheering and screaming of the warriors. Bjorn sat on some form of wooden tribune that had been set up in the middle of the yard. He knew that it had been there too the last time Ivar had been in this same courtyard. Ivar could only assume it was used for the royal family to look appropriately royal whenever they would greet guests at their house. Those Christians and their antics were still odd to Ivar. They made such a show out of everything. Even Heahmund had always stopped to pray over his food for endless minutes before he had allowed himself to eat. His brother’s face was like stone as he stared ahead with fury in his blue eyes. Maybe Bjorn was just as angry as he was that Aethelwulf had managed to get away in time. 

“Your pet Christian,” Bjorn spat out at last as he directed his blazing gaze at Ivar now. _Oh_ , Ivar thought, _he is angry with_ _me._ “He warned them. You should not have let him go.” 

“I told you before that I did not let him go,” Ivar replied sharply even though he tried to not let his anger get the better of him. Bjorn was just as hot-headed as the rest of them and although he had never shared the closest bond with Bjorn, he could still read his brother easily and knew when to push his buttons and when it was better to back off and play nice. Right now was not the moment to push - not if he wanted to keep all his teeth. “He tricked me.”

“You might be able to bullshit everyone else, Ivar, but I do not believe this wild story! _You? Tricked?_ No! You let him go and he warned his people! I just do not understand why you would do such a foolish thing to a person who ordered your torture and-” Bjorn clenched his jaw hard and dropped his head. Even though Ivar was the one who had suffered under the hands of those Christians, his brothers still seemed pained by their discovery of what his torture had entailed and that left Ivar baffled more often than not. Finally, Bjorn shook his head as if to get what he wanted to say out of his mind before he got up from where he was sitting to stride over to Ivar, pointing an accusing finger at his brother and then pushing it against Ivar’s forehead hard. “You made a mistake, Ivar. And I am surprised that you did. Then again, maybe you are more like our father than I would have thought.”

“It is an honor to be compared to the great Ragnar Lothbrok,” Ivar said, lifting his chin defiantly.

“Not in that case, no.” For a moment, Bjorn looked past Ivar, his expression guarded as he was thinking about the right words to use. “Our father was a great tactician - as you seem to be as well. But often our father made decisions with his heart instead of his mind and you, dear Brother, seem to repeat that same mistake. You allowed the bishop to go because you like him, because you found a kindred spirit in him. Perhaps there was more than that between you. I would not be surprised to find out that you lay with him. Either way, he betrayed whatever trust you put in him, Ivar.”

Heat shot through him and colored the tips of his ears without him having any chance to fight it. Panic coiled tightly like a snake inside his stomach. Shame made his heart race and his blood rush through his ears. He didn't get the chance to jump down Bjorn’s throat for his comments though as, right at that moment, a commotion broke out in the courtyard. If Bjorn knew what struggle his words had incited inside of Ivar’s mind, he did not show it, his face remaining calm as he turned around to observe what was happening inside the courtyard.

A figure dressed in a white garment stepped into the yard and made their way through the ransacking warriors as if he was completely unbothered by their presence. For a brief moment, Ivar was certain to see a ghost but the closer the man came, the more clearly he could see his features, the white hair, the beard, the pale, almost grey skin. King Ecbert walked towards the two brothers without fear in his eyes, his head held high. One of their warriors raised his bow to shoot him but Bjorn quickly jumped forward.

“Stop!” He yelled and grabbed the bow, pushing it down. Ecbert grinned now as if he had expected Bjorn to react in that way. “That is King Ecbert! I order you to spare him.”

Ecbert’s eyes remained only on Ivar’s brother for the moment being, ignoring the swords being raised against him. For a moment, however brief it seemed, Ecbert looked at Bjorn as if he was his savior, as if he had come to save him from the heathen attack. There was unbridled admiration for Bjorn in the man’s eyes. The same man who had sent his father to the slaughter. The same man who had told his brothers that he had not known of Aethelwulf’s betrayal. Ivar, however, did not believe that. Surely, King Ecbert had known. How could he not?

And then Ecbert’s eyes fell upon Ivar and something inside of him just snapped. “Ivar,” He said, his voice full of warmth. “My dear boy, please let me explain how truly sorry-”

Before anyone could even try to stop him, before anyone even realized what he was doing, before Ivar could even make the conscious decision to do it, he sent his ax flying and the blade did not disappoint as it embedded itself in Ecbert's chest. Silence fell above the castle. Bjorn stared wide-eyed at him as did Ecbert who stumbled forward before falling to the ground, dead. 

※※※※※※※

“I am not sorry that I killed King Ecbert,” Ivar said calmly, his hands resting on the table before him. The same table King Ecbert had sat with his father at. “I acted out of anger and I am sorry for _that_. I acted without thinking, I admit it. I saw the man who delivered my father to his enemy to be killed. I would have respected him more if he had killed our father himself.”

“He could have given us information about the whereabouts of his son and grandsons!” Bjorn bristled, frustrated that his brother was so nonchalant and calm about it. 

“Which he would not have done,” Ivar huffed in response. As always, Bjorn failed to see the bigger picture. He was naive in a way that was unbecoming for a son of Ragnar Lothbrok. It was the same kind of naivete that had led their father to leave England and his settlement behind because he had trusted that Ecbert would honor their deal. “Would you give such vital information about your family to your enemy? He would have lied to us. If any of the things that I have heard about this man is true, then he is a manipulator and a liar. By Odin’s beard, he was sleeping with the wife of his own son! He slept with your mother too, Bjorn! He lied to our father when they first made an alliance! He burned down the settlement and killed everyone! He got what he _deserved_.”

Bjorn hissed at him like an angry cat and threw his hands in the air before he pointed at Ubbe. “Ubbe,” He growled. “You are his big brother. Would you mind talking some sense into him?”

Hvitserk snickered in response while Ubbe just clicked his tongue. “Ivar-”

“I know, Ubbe,” Ivar sighed and raised his hands placatingly. “I know, I should not have killed him without talking to my brothers first. What do those Christians say? Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. But now it is done and we have to find out where Aethelwulf and his ilk might have fled to. I will not leave England before I have my revenge on Aethelwulf.”

He knew that his brothers would not argue with him about that. Not after what had happened to him in captivity, not after his brothers knew what had been done to him. The thought that they knew his shame was still turning his stomach - even more now after the things Bjorn had said, after the insinuations Ubbe had made. He felt dirty when they were looking at him, knowing, suspecting that there had been more between Heahmund and him.

Sigurd’s taunting words from before he had left Kattegat were still ringing in his ears after Margrethe had told him about his inability to satisfy her. He could not possibly admit that it had not been his body’s fault for not working properly and that his desires lay elsewhere. 

“We will find him,” Sigurd, who sat on his right-hand side, said suddenly and clasped his shoulder. A part of him wanted to cut off Sigurd’s hand for that. “We will get our revenge.”

Sigurd was insufferable lately. He was insufferable ever since Ivar’s return from England and especially so after their brothers had learned the truth about what happened to him inside that monastery. 

Sigurd and he had never been close before and it seemed wrong for his brother to so outwardly care about him now and just because he had been tortured. And yet, a less bitter part of his mind thought, maybe his torture was the only thing that had managed to keep them together as brothers. Things might be different now if his brothers had never been forced to work together to rescue him. Then again, them working together was not the problem now, was it? _He_ was the problem. He knew that this was true. He had always been the problem and, ironically enough, in the end, he was the glue that had held his family together in their quest for revenge and to save him. 

He knew that his brothers might as well have left him to die in a dark cell. It was hard for Ivar to see the good in what happened, though. The love his brothers showed him since they had found him seemed wrong, dirty, cheap, built on his own torment and pain - as if they thought they owed him their love because none of them had accompanied their father and Ivar and thus caused this to happen in the first place. 

He missed Heahmund’s blunt honesty towards him. He missed the way Heahmund would counter his arguments with his own sharp mind. He missed his touch and his kisses, feeling whole when he was with the other man. 

He hated himself for missing Heahmund like this. He hated himself for feeling whole when he was with the other man.

The Gods wouldn't judge him and, had his cards been dealt differently, maybe his brothers would not judge him either. _You are not even a real man_ \- that’s what Sigurd had told him after the Margrethe-debacle. Would he be proving him right if he confessed to the nature of his relationship with Heahmund? Would his brothers look at him again like he was just the dirt beneath their feet? Years ago, he would have thought that his brothers would not care about who he lay with but things were different now. He had been humiliated and dishonored by those soldiers at Lindisfarne, emasculated, taunted, laughed at, taken revenge on for crimes he had not committed - crimes his father had not committed. Everything was different now. 

“My suggestion is that we go back north,” Ivar then said, taking back control over the conversation after his very haphazard apology about killing Ecbert. Well, his brothers could not believe him to truly feel sorry about that. “To where we defeated Aelle. If I understood correctly what father has told me about England before, after Aelle’s death, his kingdom fell into King Ecbert’s hands, making him the ‘King of Kings’ if you will, the king over all of England. Aethelwulf and his ilk would have fled as far away from Wessex as possible and you cannot possibly go farther away from here than Northumbria. We should establish a permanent camp there.”

His brothers’ eyes and attention were on him now, even Bjorn seemed to consider his plan - and this time with less prejudice as before. “No matter if we find Aethelwulf quickly or not, we have to have a stronghold from which we can operate. The hunt for Aethelwulf might cost us years while he is in hiding with his family. Even if he might not have gone north, which I assure you he has, if we go north, we are closer to our own lands and shipping routes. We can build an impregnable fortress.”

“Where?” Hvitserk asked. He could see the spark in his brother’s eyes that always spoke of his love for adventure and thrill. He had won over Hvitserk, that much was certain. And, as he looked at Sigurd, his other brother seemed keen on the idea as well. 

“I’ve heard of a town called York. It is built on a major river, and it is not far from the sea. And I think that we should take it.” His idea was, once again, not met with ridicule right away. His last successful battle strategy had evidently instilled some faith in his brothers into his abilities. “They have a great church for their God there too if the reports I heard are correct. So, if we would take York and make a spectacle of it, we might just drive King Aethelwulf out of his little hidey-hole and get him to take up arms against us once more, attack _us_ this time.”

“Wouldn't this look like we are retreating? When we leave Wessex so shortly after killing the king?” Ubbe asked, furrowing his brows but Ivar could tell that he was carefully considering his plan.

“Yes. Yes, it would,” Ivar grinned. “But it is only tactical and it is our best chance to get this coward to show himself. We will have time to scope out the city, use it to our advantage against him and Aethelwulf will not know what’s hitting him before it is too late. I promise you, my brothers, that this is our best chance to win.”

“I agree with Ivar,” Hvitserk said and even Sigurd nodded in agreement. “We should go north and attack York. It is the last thing that Aethelwulf would expect us to do.”

“He would expect us to stay in Wessex, claim, and settle on the land that our father once got from Ecbert and rebuild the settlement that has been destroyed.” Bjorn nodded in agreement, his arms still crossed as he leaned against the table. Bjorn might not be a brilliant tactician but he had spent more time around their father than the rest of them and Ivar would like to imagine that his father would have come up with a similar plan. His father, who had faked his own death just to have a chance to attack Paris from the inside. “He would expect us to establish a base here where we have slain his father.”

“And,” Ivar grinned. “If we would stay here, we would be surrounded by enemies, while up north we would be nearer home. Precisely because he would not expect us to leave the land we just claimed with disposing of the king, we should do exactly that.”

Ubbe hesitated for another moment, chewing carefully on his bottom lip before a grin spread out over his face and he nodded. “It's good.” He said and got up from his seat on Ivar’s left-hand side. “A good plan. I will go and tell Harald. We should gather our troops as soon as possible to leave for York. We can not ignore the possibility that Aethelwulf might as well return to Wessex and try to attack us by surprise like the little weasel he is.” As his brother walked past him he ruffled his hair and then quickly left the room. 

Hvitserk followed him and Sigurd too left after a moment to help his brothers, leaving Ivar with Bjorn who sat down heavily on the chair that had been occupied by Ubbe before. “Father would be proud” He stated matter-of-factly. “You have his mind, clearly. I always thought that you were more like your mother, but every day you remind me more and more of Ragnar. Ubbe might look like him but you clearly share his intelligence and cunning nature.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Do not get used to compliments like this. It will be the last time I say anything like that, baby brother.”

He smirked in response before a question finally slipped his lips that had been heavy on his mind ever since Bjorn had confronted him about the bishop. “You said earlier that you would not be surprised to find out that I laid with the bishop. Why did you say that? Why would you not be surprised?” 

Bjorn was not the only one of them who was surprised that Ivar actually asked that question. Even as the words had left his mouth, Ivar was surprised to hear them come over his lips. And yet, the question had to be asked for his own peace of mind. After his initial surprise wore off, Bjorn sighed deeply, leaned back in his seat, and kicked his legs up on the table.

“As I said, it seemed that you found a kindred spirit in him, that you actually _liked_ him. I watched you with him and he was the first person that I have ever seen that could hold his own against you - Someone who was at eye level with you. You are smarter than the rest of us and you know that - Stop, grinning or I am going to wipe that grin off your face with my ax! - And that Christian met you head-on and with no trouble.” Bjorn shrugged as if he was unsure of his own words. “You were different around him than you were around our brothers, less condescending, less arrogant, less of an asshole even. He challenged you and I know you like a good challenge. When I watched you with him I was reminded of how father was around Athelstan back in the day.”

“Why?” He was treading dangerous grounds. It was not smart having this conversation with his oldest brother. It was something very different to talk about something so sensitive with Ubbe or even Hvitserk compared to talking about it with Bjorn. He knew that and yet he did it anyway. Well, he had always been attracted to danger.

“This can not be described,” Bjorn huffed. “And I will not even try. You are the wordsmith of our family.” With that, his brother grabbed Ubbe’s discarded and still half-full cup, lifted it at him in a silent toast, and then emptied it in one go. “However, what I can say is that I hope that you have been right about him and that he has not betrayed the trust that you have placed in him.”

※※※※※※※

Staring at the town of York, a strange feeling twisted in his stomach. The town looked peaceful to anyone who didn't know what was happening behind the thick walls that should have protected the city and its brave people. 

“The Northmen have been busy,” A young scout reported back to him after joining the small group of warriors on the hill overlooking the town. “repairing and improving the town’s defenses, your Grace. They are industrious people.”

“They are pagans and devils. Nothing more,” Heahmund snapped out of habit. “Go on.”

“The town is well-defended. Begging your pardon, but your Grace may not yet be strong enough to attack her. Not with any hope of success.”

“I disagree,” Heahmund replied calmly, his eyes remaining on the town of York. Somewhere behind those walls was Ivar, planning and strategizing with his brothers. “I have every hope of success. We have the new King on our side, the murder of his father has left him thirsting for revenge and his presence in the field will inspire new recruits.” 

Heahmund had lived among those heathens for far longer than anyone should have allowed but he was still convinced that God had held his hand over him as he had lived among those pagans for a reason. It was God’s will that he was still alive now. It was God’s will that Ivar had let him go. It was God’s will that he would lead King Aethelwulf to victory against Ivar and his ilk. It had taken him returning to his people and hearing the gruesome tales of how the heathens had taken York for him to realize that it had been God’s plan all along to send him to Norway and live among those people. He knew their ways now, knew their tactics. Most importantly, he knew _Ivar_ and his clever mind. 

It had not surprised him to hear that the Northmen had led an attack on York, killing the bishop in the most grotesque way and putting him up on display. The church, if reports were correct, was now their base of operation, desecrated with animals roaming around and people fornicating in shadowy corners. Ivar had been certain to make a spectacle out of taking York. He had expected nothing less of the young prince. Ivar’s deeds were like a lighthouse in a stormy sea, calling out to Heahmund to find him here.

Soon they would meet on the battlefield, just like promised and Ivar would look at him with mischief in his eyes, a grin pulling at his mouth and he would say: _“It was about time, dear Bishop. I was starting to get impatient."_

※※※※※※※

They had just come back from hunting, dead rabbits still flung over their shoulders, and striding through the streets of york as they heard the sound of their youngest brother straining, groaning in pain. In Ubbe it awakened the same protective urges that had always come to play when something happened to Ivar. In Sigurd, it awakened an unfamiliar sense of worry. 

He had not usually been one to worry about his little brother in the past. He knew that Ivar was always in pain. It was no secret. His baby brother had always been in a constant state of agony, struggling with things Sigurd wouldn't even think about on a daily basis. The things that had come naturally to Sigurd and his brothers, had been a challenge for Ivar. His crying and wailing had driven him and his brothers up the walls and out of the house, it had driven their mother to infidelity, even their father had preferred to be far away from that. He remembered the few times that he had seen their father sitting somewhere with Ivar in his arms when they were little and how overwhelmed Ragnar had been, how uncertain of how to deal with Ivar. Right now, those pained moans sparked worry in Sigurd, after all.

Curious Sigurd, Ubbe, and Hvitserk followed the sounds and realized quickly that it came from the forge. Bjorn too joined the group, coming out of the church as if he had heard the commotion even from there. A coincidence, Sigurd decided even though he knew better. Instinct, yes, that seemed the more appropriate explanation.

As they approached the scene, they found a few of their men standing and looking at something lying on the wooden planks on the ground. That something turned out to be their little brother, lying on his back on the ground, his legs hidden behind an anvil and workbench.

“Ivar?” Ubbe called out, a mixture of confusion and worry in his voice. Ivar, however, didn't react at first, he had his fists balled tightly, the leather of his gloves creaking angrily at the strain he put on them, his jaw clenched hard as he breathed through another groan of pain, trying to muffle the sound. 

“Ah, what are you doing?” Hvitserk asked and quickly found a column to lean against. Unlike Sigurd and Ubbe, he seemed rather amused by whatever their little brother was doing. To Hvitserk, most of what Ivar was up to were just his usual antics, something to be amused by, nothing to be worried about. He exchanged a look with Bjorn, who just shrugged his shoulders and cocked his head to the side.

“Wait,” Ivar finally dignified their presence with an answer as he looked at them, waving a hand placatingly. His voice sounded strained, though. “And I’ll show you.”

The blacksmith who had been sitting near Ivar’s feet this entire time finally stopped whatever he was doing. “Ready,” He said and stood up, his eyes downcast at Ivar, uncertain, apparently. Ivar took a deep breath, gathered some momentum, and quickly sat up, disappearing from sight behind the workbench for just a second. A moment later, their brother was shoving his right leg back into view, now clad completely in steel braces, while his left leg remained relatively free, apart from the metal splints running up the sides of his leg and fastened with worn leather belts. Ivar’s right leg had always been worse, barely mobile from all the badly healed broken bones throughout his life. His knee had remained almost completely stiff from an accident when he had been eight years old. They watched Ivar grab his crutch, which he could easily use as a weapon itself. With some strain and a pained groan, Ivar managed to propel himself to his feet. It looked painful the way he pulled himself to his feet. The steel armor on his right leg that kept it stiff and protected seemed uncomfortable as he pulled his feet underneath him to stand upright.

They remained silent as they watched their little brother regain his balance carefully before he slowly made his first steps towards them under the watchful gaze of his brothers and the warriors that were still around them. They could see how much effort it cost, how painful it was, but, at last, their little brother, stood before them proudly for the first time.

“We need to stop calling you little now.” Bjorn was the first to break the spell and Sigurd could see pride flicker through Bjorn’s eyes. The warriors around them seemed impressed by Ivar’s strength and his resilience, his sheer will. What Ivar wanted, would happen, that was the message they all perceived from that. Ivar wanted to walk so Ivar would walk. It was something they would have never thought possible, not them as his family, not the warriors who had been looking down on the youngest son of Ragnar for all his life, not expecting anything of him. It was Ivar’s great mind, however, that had made the raid on York possible in the first place and it was Ivar’s great mind that had come up with this new armor that would help him stand. “You are almost taller than Sigurd now.”

A grin flashed over Ivar’s face and for just a second, he lost his balance. His left knee gave in under the strain and he almost fell but Sigurd quickly caught him, gaining himself a glare and then a crooked smile that Sigurd returned eagerly. It was probably the first time that they actually shared a smile, he thought briefly.

Later they sat together in the church, their new longhouse, their new base. They had made a fire in the center of the church and there they were sitting side by side, drinking mead and warming their hands, while their brothers were off helping their warriors. As he looked at his younger brother, Ivar seemed exhausted.

“We have to expect an attack soon,” Ivar said and drained his cup. “I was on the walls earlier and I have seen a group of people on a hill in the distance, scoping out the town.” He noticed the hint of a smile on Ivar's face. Ivar’s mind had always been an enigma wrapped in a riddle and yet he could tell that Ivar had seen his bishop in that group of scouts. This wistful smile on his face was reserved only for that wretched Christian. 

“We will be prepared,” Sigurd nodded. “Thanks to your strategy.”

“Now you are trying to butter me up.”

“Not at all,” Sigurd huffed. “We have never been in agreement about anything ever - but I can recognize that your plan is good. I can recognize that your plans so far have been brilliant.”

“I wouldn't say that we have never been in agreement about anything ever.”

“Of course you would not, which only proves my point, dear brother.” They shared a small chuckle before they fell back into a rather unfamiliar comfortable silence. In fact, Sigurd could not recall ever having just sat with his brother, talking calmly or enjoying the silence between them. Ivar refilled his cup and then Sigurd’s as they listened to the crackling of the flames and the distant sounds of the people working outside. 

“I hated you,” Sigurd then confessed in breaking the silence after a few minutes in which both of them had hung after their own thoughts. “Ever since you were born I hated you.” As he looked at his brother, he could see hurt flash over his face for just a second before Ivar quickly schooled his face into that neutral mask of indifference he would often put on as to not let anyone know what was really going on inside of him. Some of the people in Kattegat were convinced that Ivar was this emotionless, cold monster but Sigurd knew better. Not a lack of emotion was his baby brother’s problem. 

“I recognize that it was not your fault for being born the way you were born or that you came into this world so quickly after me but I hated you regardless of all of that. Mother did not care about anything but you after that, her days were occupied by you alone - and then later by drinking but that is beside the point.” Almost he expected his brother to interrupt him and defend their mother but Ivar surprised him as he took another sip from his mead and stared into the flames instead. 

“Because of you, I thought, I never had a mother. Ubbe raised me. Hvitserk raised me. The people of Kattegat raised me. Everyone except my mother because my mother had only eyes and ears for you. And I could not understand it. I thought _‘Why is a cripple more deserving of my mother’s love than I am?’_. She had named me after her father - I thought that had to mean something but half the time she forgot my very existence. It took me years … it took me seeing you in my visions, to realize that it was not that _I_ was not deserving of my mother’s love but that you _needed_ it more and that mother felt special when she would be caring for you. She was your whole world until father returned and she reveled in that. We would eventually leave the nest, find wives, have children - but _you,_ she could keep for herself. You always seemed to get what you wanted from her. She would spoil you rotten but I realized at one point that you were much more of a prisoner, much more of a slave than Margrethe or any other slave in Kattegat. I see that now more clearly than ever - the man you are, the man you should have always been, that you could have been if she would have allowed you to.”

Ivar was silent for a moment and Sigurd half expected him to throw an ax or a knife at him. Maybe he would have if their situation would be different. He wondered if, in a different world in which Ivar had not been held captive by the Saxons, they would still be at odds with one another. “I wanted to thank you,” Ivar then said after a few minutes of silent contemplation. “for … telling our brothers that I was alive so that they would search for me, for not letting me rot there. And I wanted to thank you for keeping my secret.”

“Which you spilled yourself.”

“Which I spilled myself,” Ivar sighed, a lopsided grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Because I thought you had told them. Because I thought that you had betrayed my trust. I am … always so angry, I always expect the worst, even from my own brothers.”

“I would have never said anything,” Sigurd promised and punched his brother’s shoulder. “But I am glad that the others know. It was eating me up to know what happened and to keep it a secret.”

“Because you have always been soft, Sigurd.” Ivar scoffed but the look he gave him spoke tales of fondness and not of hate or disgust. “I was afraid they would look down on me, that they would say I was not a real man because of this - like you did, after Margrethe.”

“I should not have said this.” In fact, the memory of that day was still plaguing him horribly. He had gotten into a horrible fight with Ivar after their mother had beseeched all of them to talk sense into Ivar. He had never meant to say these words to Ivar. “It was cruel. I am your big brother, I should have never said something like this and she should not have told me. What happened to you does not make you less of a man. You proved your strength and intelligence, you made all of this right here possible. The others do not understand why you allowed the bishop to live and let him go. They think you have grown soft on him. _I_ think that you allowed him to live, that you let him go, only underlines your strength. Killing him and making a spectacle out of it would have been easy. Letting him live, keeping him around you as a constant reminder of your pain was much harder.”

He could see the quiet contemplation on Ivar’s face as his brother looked at the flames again before he muttered: “It was not hard at all…”

**-End of Chapter 14-**


	15. Chapter 15

“We have not secured the roman walls,” Ivar said as he knew the attention was on him and not his brothers. “That’s where they will enter. One of the warriors on the outposts told me that the enemy is making preparations for the attack, their scouts are circling York like vultures. I am certain that they will attack tomorrow.”

He reveled in the attention and the grim looks the warriors regarded him with. For once none of his brothers seemed willing to shoot him down. They had accepted his war strategy once more, now at the third time, they seemed more confident in his abilities. Of course, Bjorn had been cautious at first as Ivar had told him that they would wait for the Saxons to attack them and that they needed to leave a part of their defenses weak. It was a risky game they were playing, of course. They had no way of knowing how many soldiers Aethelwulf had managed to gather around him and if he would overrun them, perhaps. Fighting inside a city was always risky, to begin with, and Ivar could feel the unease from the people around him. He, however, only felt excitement vibrate in his very core. Heahmund would undoubtedly ride into battle with his king.

“This way there will be only one point of entry for them - but they will try and get to the nearest gate to let the rest of their troops in as well. We will set up traps for them and split them apart.” As he looked at the warriors that had gathered inside the church once more, he could see how uneasy they were about this strategy but Ivar knew already that his plan would work out. “The entire town of York will be our playing field. Imagine it like one big chessboard. We, my brothers and I, will need five squads, one for each of us. We will divide the city into five districts and every squad will defend their district. In this battle it is key that we steer their troops in the directions we want them to go and for this purpose, we will transform alleys and narrow streets into traps so that they will be forced to choose the paths we control. Fighting inside a town is different from fighting in an open field. We need to adapt, be smart, and use the terrain to our advantage. They expect us to fight them in open combat in the streets - and although we will do that, we will thin their lines before we meet them in the streets of York.”

The thought of meeting Heahmund in battle excited him as much as it worried him. He would not hesitate to slay the man when he would meet him in battle because he would have no other choice than to do so. The possibility of having to kill Heahmund or seeing him killed, however, scared him more than he was willing to admit. He desired the other man deeply; his touch, his kisses, his quick mind, and his sharp tongue. He had never met anyone, maybe aside from his own father, who had been able to go toe to toe with him in conversation. Sure, Heahmund was insufferable in his godliness but before they returned to England, Ivar had glimpsed a hint of understanding in Heahmund’s crystal eyes at times, a bit of softness towards him, perhaps even.

He was aware that it was possible that Heahmund might have just played on his emotions, played on his wish to be desired and loved, and treated like a normal person. He was aware that it could be possible that he had fallen for his tricks just because they had shared a bed and yet he doubted that the Christian would stoop so low. No, Heahmund was a man of faith and Ivar knew that his faith forbade him to share a bed with another man. He had gone against his faith, gone against his rules, committed an unforgivable sin in his faith and he would not have done that just to survive. Heahmund was a great warrior, willing to die for his cause just like Ivar. Maybe he just _wanted_ to believe that Heahmund might have felt the same as he; intrigue, desire, fondness perhaps even.

While he discussed with his brothers where they would position themselves across the city, he often allowed his mind to wander back to his bishop. He was sure that he had seen him on the hill overlooking York. It was impossible to say, of course, but he had felt his presence, felt his gaze pierce through him, that tingling sensation in the back of his neck. He allowed Bjorn to take the reins again as he decided where to place each squad and thus each brother. In the end, it was Bjorn’s decision that Ivar was to stay up in a tower near the center where no harm could come to him and from where he could follow the battle more easily. 

“I would be easy prey up there,” Ivar told his brother after a moment of contemplation. “I will,” He then said and raised his hand placatingly. “stay up in the tower, Bjorn, if that is what you want. You are our leader, after all.” His voice was sweet as honey, his eyes, as he looked up at his standing brother, big and honest and unblinking. “I just want to give it up for consideration that, if my squad falls, I would be easy prey up in that tower. You should never make the mistake of underestimating our enemy. Aethelwulf, though not as smart as his father, knows that I am a cripple and he knows that I am here inside York. Also, he has the bishop at his side who has lived among us, who had observed us together and had time to gain intel-”

“Which he could only do because you allowed him to!” Bjorn growled through his teeth.

“I allowed him to,” Ivar stated calmly, folding his hands on the table, the map of York in front of him while his brothers were surrounding the table. “because it is now easier to trick him.” His brothers stared at him in confusion and Ivar had to bite back on the annoyed sigh that threatened to escape him. Sometimes it was astonishing to Ivar that those four managed to get through their days without stumbling and falling into their own swords.

“My brothers … the good bishop stayed with us for months, isn't that right? And what did he see living in Kattegat, observing us? He saw a group of brothers that were squabbling, yes, sometimes fighting and bickering, of course, but what he saw was a family, a _unit_ , protective of one another. You showed him that you were protective of me after what happened to me here in England, that you would rip him limb from limb if I would allow you to take revenge for me. You showed Aethelwulf, when you came here the first time, that you were willing to fight a bloody war for your little brother and while I am touched by all this warmth and familial love - it painted a certain picture of us, our family, our people, for those Christians.”

A grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. “So … What would they expect us to do? What would they expect _you_ to do after seeing that picture you’ve painted for them?”

“They would expect us,” Ubbe murmured. “That we would keep our youngest brother, who can not walk by himself and without aid, who has never been in the fray of battle as far as they know, somewhere safe so that he might not fall into enemy hands again. They would expect us to protect you.”

“Good, Ubbe, finally you are using that head of yours,” Ivar snickered. “They would certainly not expect me to be right there with my warriors. As I said, if you decide to keep me up there, Bjorn, I will follow your orders, but I want to emphasize that they will know that I will be somewhere up high, somewhere away from the battle. If I were them, I would try to, as quickly as possible, find and catch me to hold me captive, to hold me as a bargaining chip. In their eyes, I am the weakest link, and not only that but, in their eyes, I am _your_ weakness.” He made a point of looking at every last one of his brothers to drive home his argument. “If they succeed in taking me hostage, they know that they have won the battle.”

“They could also capture you - more easily, I might add - when you are on the battlefield,” Bjorn replied stubbornly.

“That is true,” Ivar nodded patiently. “But they would not expect me there and they have never seen me fight. They will underestimate me - and that will be their mistake.”

“What are you going to do if you meet your pet Christian on the battlefield?” Hvitserk asked, a small grin playing mockingly on his face.

“I will kill him, of course,” Ivar replied with no hesitation. 

That night, however, Ivar barely found sleep. He could hear Hvitserk snoring on a bed of hay just a couple of feet away. Sigurd had been tossing for a while now but that was normal. Sigurd had always been a fitful sleeper - which had made sharing a bed with him during their childhood, not the most comfortable experience for certain. Ubbe and Bjorn, however, were sleeping soundly, with Ubbe murmuring something on occasion before changing position on his bed. Ivar found himself lying on his back, staring at the high ceiling of the church above him, listening to the familiar sounds of his sleeping brothers around him. There was a certain sense of comfort that he found in the sounds they made. It reminded him of home, it reminded him of his childhood. It brought him back to the days where he had slept in the same bed as Sigurd with his older two brothers sharing a bed right beside them. It brought him back to how he had often crawled over to Ubbe and Hvitserk during a storm when thunder would rumble over the skies and lightning flashed brightly. The sounds that his brothers made in their sleep promised safety. 

He imagined the moon shining down on the city, full and bright, and thought about Heahmund, about the last night that they had shared together and how easy it would have been to slit his throat. In releasing him to go back to his people, he made the war harder than it needed to be. Not just because of Heahmund’s raw strength but mainly because of his intelligent mind.

Everything he had said to his brothers was true and yet, he was aware of the possibility that Heahmund had already taken all of this into account, had already thought about it, and might be a step ahead of him. And wasn't that exciting? To have an opponent that was on the same level as him?

And yet, the thought of living in a world without the bishop by his side, suddenly seemed drab and boring to him. Love was such a big word, such an impactful word and regardless of everything that happened, regardless of his own reluctance to use it, more and more often he would think about it when he would think about Heahmund. 

Heahmund, who had looked at him as if he was perfect and whole. Heahmund, whose touch had excited him beyond his wildest imagination. Heahmund whose kisses burned like fire and who had never tired of him when they were together. The truth was that he didn't want to kill him.

※※※※※※※

The rush of adrenalin, the fray of battle. That was it. The reason why God had sent him to this world, why God had given him this body. He was a sinner in every sense of the word. Not only had he lain with women that came to him for guidance, using their trust in him, their love for God to satisfy his own animalistic desires, but he had lain with a heathen man, maybe even the evilest of them that he would ever meet - a devil incarnate. He could still see Ivar in his mind's eye, grinning at him covered in the blood of the guard he had killed with his teeth alone. And yet God allowed him to cut down his enemies without mercy. He allowed him to repent for his sins. 

Getting into the town had been easy - too easy. He had warned King Aethelwulf that Ivar would never allow such a mistake if it was not in fact intentional. Aethelwulf had cut him down, telling him that his view of the Vikings was skewed after spending so much time with them, that he gave Ivar too much credit as if he would know the young man better than Heahmund did. Maybe it was true that Heahmund gave him too much credit but Aethelwulf was definitely underestimating Ivar. And, as Heahmund had learned, underestimating Ivar was dangerous.

In the end, he was proven right as the heathens rushed in on them from all sides, pushing them into traps and splitting up their forces. They were horribly outnumbered and Heahmund knew that as much as his king. Aethelwulf was stupid in his stubbornness and unwilling to retreat to save his life and that of his sons. 

The king was determined, after his last two losses against the Ragnarssons and the death of his father, to take back York and defeat the heathen army. Heahmund had no other choice but to yell at his warriors to defend their king and the princes in the fray of battle as they were systematically pushed deeper and deeper into the heart of the city, while the Vikings blocked their only way of retreat behind them. As Aethelwulf noticed his grave mistake, it was already too late. Heahmund got separated from his king at one point, escaping by the skin of his teeth a deathly blow from one of Ivar’s brothers. It happened so quickly that he didn't even see which one it was before he dodged another attack and ran down a narrow alley stumbling over the bodies of fallen soldiers. He did not even care if it looked like he was running away from Ivar’s brothers. He would not be slain by one of them in cold blood without a chance to properly defend himself. 

Heahmund was washed through the streets of York by the churning sea of battle as rain was battering down, washing dirt and blood through the alleys and cobblestone streets. Screaming - loud, unhinged, and decidedly not from pain - drew his attention as the battle cry ripped through the town of York. Heahmund stumbled into a plaza and stopped dead in his tracks for a heartbeat. There he was: Ivar. Sitting against his chariot on the ground, covered in blood - and certainly not his own - his legs stretched out in front of him, useless, screaming at the top of his lungs with murderous glee in his eyes.

He was laughing maniacally as their eyes met across the plaza even as a wall of armed Saxon soldiers stood between them. An arrow hit the side of the chariot right above Ivar’s right shoulder. The young man didn’t even flinch, instead just threw one of his axes and hit one of the Saxon soldiers right between the eyes, striking him down immediately. The soldiers between him and Ivar didn't dare to move. They stood, waiting, frightened by the sight of the crazed heathen while there was no one else around to help him. He would be easy pickings if the soldiers were not scared out of their minds already.

“Don't you know who I am?” Ivar screamed in his native tongue so that only Heahmund was able to understand what he was saying in the first place. That didn't change anything about the way his soldiers flinched back. “You can't kill me! Don't you know who I am? I am Ivar, the Boneless! I am Ivar, the Boneless!” He was like a wild beast, unhinged, dangerous, striking fear into the hearts of his enemies without actually fighting. The blue of his eyes seemed otherworldly bright in the contrast of the blood on his face. “You can't kill me! I am Ivar the Boneless!”

It was then that he noticed Ubbe appear at the mouth of an alley with another group of men following him. The chance of taking Ivar down easily was gone as Ubbe and his men charged into the plaza and a heated battle began. He watched as dead Saxons fell to Ivar’s feet as if he was one of their pagan gods and those dead soldiers meek sacrifices to appease him. Over the noise of battle, he still heard Ivar shouting and screaming, laughing and goading like a giddy child but with every man he struck down, Heahmund came closer and closer to him until there was no one else between them anymore. Another arrow came flying at Ivar only to hit him in the leg then. He watched him break the arrow off as if it meant nothing, his eyes quickly returning to stare at Heahmund. They were at a stalemate until a group of warriors suddenly got between them, building a wall between Ivar and him without giving them a chance to hash it out.

“Fight for your king!” He screamed across the plaza. “Fight for your God!”

Heahmund whirled around to join his men in the fight but then, right as he turned, he was face to face with Ubbe, his blue eyes blazing with fury. Heahmund did not register the moment that Ubbe’s blade struck him. He did not realize the deathly blow delivered to him. Only as he looked down he saw the sword stuck in his side. Ubbe’s face remained cold as stone.

“I told you I would kill you,” Ubbe Ragnarsson said as he pulled the sword back out of him. Someone screamed his name as he fell to the ground. As he lay there in the heavy rain, just another casualty in this senseless war, he caught another glimpse of Ivar, grabbing onto the legs of the men protecting him, staring at Heahmund in disbelieve, no longer a manic grin on his face, no longer glee in his eyes. His mouth hung open as if in yet another scream but he could not hear anything anymore and then the world turned black.

※※※※※※※

They had won the battle. That came, of course, as no surprise to Ivar. He had known they would win from the get-go. It was _his_ strategy, after all. Still, he did not feel the rush of adrenalin that came with winning a battle. His eyes were glued to the body of the bishop, lying on a cot in a back room of the church that they were using as a base. He was alive but only thanks to Helga’s healing hands. He watched her checking on the wound that his brother had created before rebandaging it and throwing him a soft smile.

“He’s going to live, Ivar,” She said calmly as she put a comforting hand on his left knee. “Don't worry.”

He would have snarled at anyone for this comment, would have told anyone else to go fuck themselves but not Helga or Floki. They were more his parents than his real parents had ever been, after all. Helga with her soft and gentle hands had often held him or driven her long fingers through his hair, comforting him when he was in pain. She had never looked at him like he was different. Never coddled him as his mother had. So, instead of being an asshole, he just nodded quietly. 

Helga got up from where she had been kneeling on the ground to take care of the good bishop, walked around the cot, and paused at his side shortly before she leaned down and pressed a kiss to the side of his head. She didn't say anything else about him sitting here, still covered in the blood and dirt from the battle, or that his brothers were confused about his antics, maybe worried about him, maybe frustrated that he was trying to keep the Christian alive. She just took his silence, could read him like no one else could except for Floki, and then left the room.

It seemed that hours had passed as he heard a voice again inside the room with him. He had been sitting next to the cot, staring at Heahmund’s ridiculously handsome face, wishing his eyes to snap open and his mouth to snarl something stupid about his God at him. He would never forget the moment Heahmund had fallen during the battle, slain by his brother Ubbe. And it was Ubbe who dared to break his peace again.

“You love him, don't you?”

“You might want to talk to Helga.”

“Why?”

“Because I think you might have a concussion, dear brother.”

Ubbe snorted. He heard something being pulled across the ground and then he saw, in his periphery, how Ubbe sat down next to him. “I do not regret stabbing him.” He started. “It felt damn good. Your quest for revenge … it will only be over if he is dead too, don't you realize that?”

“I think it is much more of a punishment for him to be forced to live among us heathens.” Ivar shrugged. “I would get more satisfaction out of that.”

“See? The Ivar I know would not have hesitated to slay him and most certainly would not have tried saving this man at all costs,” Ubbe huffed and nudged his shoulder with his own. “You love him.”

He clamped his mouth shut, neither denying nor agreeing, but his mind and heart racing. It felt like Ubbe had just doused him in ice-water with his words. “He is our enemy.” That was all he said as an answer because not saying anything at all would only confirm what Ubbe thought.

“ _Athelstan_ was our enemy,” Ubbe said with a small shrug of his wide shoulders - the same shoulders he had carried his little brother on in the past. “Yet, father loved him. Maybe … not in the same way you love your bishop but … Listen, our father never hated the Christians. He learned a lot from Athelstan. He respected him as he respected Ecbert too. He allowed Athelstan to follow his own beliefs, never pressured him into something else. There is no reason why you should not love this man - even though I really would like to stab him again.”

“I am not having this kind of conversation.”

“Why not?” Ubbe scoffed. “Because you are too proud? Or because you are too _manly_ to talk about your feelings?”

He clenched his jaw hard and threw his brother a sharp glare before returning his eyes back to Heahmund as if he might vanish if he would not look at him all the time. There was no need to dignify Ubbe’s question with an answer. Ubbe knew perfectly well the reason for Ivar’s reluctance. 

“I am always so angry,” He then bit out in a snarl. “There is not a second of a day in which I am not bitter and angry. I like inflicting pain. I like seeing people suffer. I have no love in my heart for anyone except my family. And yet” He paused for a moment, not sure if he wanted to say what was in his heart. It was Ubbe, though. Ubbe who had carried him around Kattegat even when he had already been a young man, even after he had already gotten his armring. Ubbe had always been by his side. “And yet, when I am around Heahmund I feel … calm. I always … My whole life I felt like a failure, Ubbe. I wasn’t strong enough, fast enough, good enough. Father left the family and I felt like it was my fault because I was … not whole. And mother … she smothered me with her love as if she had to prove something to herself. But the bishop … he looks at me no different than anyone else. He listens to my ideas, my plans without ridiculing me, without telling me that I cannot do what I dream about because I am just a cripple. Talking with him is easy and maybe he is the only person on this earth that truly understands me.”

Ubbe placed his hand on his shoulder and a part of him wanted to shake it off. He didn't though. He didn't lean into the touch either. A part of him was still wary of the situation, weary of the lack of judgment from his brother. How could he not judge him after what Ivar had been through? Falling for another man after what he had suffered?

“We need to decide what to do with Aethelwulf and his family now.” Ubbe changed the topic and Ivar was thankful that he did. “Aethelwulf and Aethelred are injured. Queen Judith followed our call and came to York to be with her sons and her husband. I must say, I am impressed by her courage. You should have seen her. She walked through the gates like the city belonged to her, her head held high, dressed and adorned in her most expensive garments and jewels. A true queen. She reminded me of our mother, in a way.”

“I don't know what needs to be discussed.”

“Well, Aethelwulf has to die, that much is certain but what about his sons? His wife?” Ubbe sighed. “Maybe we should not kill all of them. Let us forge an alliance with Alfred and his brother. Imprison Judith if necessary. One of them could be our puppet king.”

“Alfred.” Ivar decided. “Not Aethelred. But if we would kill his brother … Alfred would betray us in the future.”

“What do you suggest then?”

“I don't know,” Ivar sighed, his eyes glued to the bishop again. Helga had stripped him off his clothes but she had not taken the cross the bishop wore. His eyes kept going back to the simple wooden cross, again and again, thinking about how he had felt it pressed against his own skin numerous times by now. “Maybe we could … motivate him to join the cleric. I mean … aren't those Christians oh so pious? Surely, it's a great honor for Prince Aethelred to become a priest, maybe a bishop even. He can't have children as a priest. He can't marry. One problem less to worry about, don't you think?”

Ubbe pressed a kiss to the side of his head as Helga had done. “See?” He then grinned. “That's why we all wanted to talk to you about that.” He got up with a sigh. “I tell the others about your ideas but I want you there when we tell our dear prisoners. There will be a public trial and we need to act like one united front. Leave your bishop in Helga’s caring hands for that and … maybe take a bath before. You stink.”

His brother actually managed to draw a smirk from him as he watched Ubbe leave. He was right, of course. Despite his inferior intellect, Ubbe had a tendency to be right about things more than he probably realized he was. He could not stay here and watch over his bishop forever. He needed to reclaim his position now, not act weak just because the man he desired was injured.

“He is right, you know?” A gruff voice pulled him from his wandering thoughts and as his gaze shot back to Heahmund’s face, he found his eyes open into slits. “You could indeed benefit from a bath…”

He almost laughed but the sound got stuck in his throat. “How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough” He hummed, a small smirk pulling on the corners of his mouth. His heart started racing again at these words and the insinuation. How much had he truly heard? How much did he know? “I think you made the right decision. It is wise to make Alfred the next king. The young prince is intelligent and although he is a devout Christian, he is open to new ideas and other beliefs. It is his opinion that the sermon should not be held in Latin anymore so that everyone can understand the word of our Lord. His brother, on the other hand, is much like his father: Hot-headed and brash and with a deep-seated hatred for your kind. I do not think that the queen is much of a threat. She is highly intelligent, yes, much more so than her husband, which is why King Ecbert chose her as his companion but she has no interest in war. She strives to enhance her knowledge and wisdom and I believe she will be a valuable asset and advisor to the young king.”

“I expected you to tell me not to kill Aethelwulf.”

“Oh no,” Heahmund muttered as he blinked slowly in the dim light of the candles around him. “Aethelwulf must die. There is no question about it. He is not a very intelligent man, driven only by his hatred towards your kind. He is a man who should have never gotten any sense of real power. He is a man who does not understand when he is defeated. He must die not only because he is a war-monger but, most importantly, because he committed treason as he broke the deal his father made with your father.”

“Are you not worried about my decision for you?”

“No,” Heahmund huffed, amusement glistening in his crystal blue eyes. “Whatever you will decide will be the right decision, I am confident in that. You are wise enough to carefully consider every possible outcome and no matter what I might think you would do, you will prove me wrong anyway so I see no point in actually trying to figure out what your verdict will be. I will embrace it.”

“In that case,” Ivar replied with a frown. “You are a much more foolish man that I would have taken you for.”

“Maybe I am.” The smile the bishop shot him was enough to knock him off his chair. So, Ivar quickly cleared his throat and moved down from the chair and onto the ground. 

“Well, dear Bishop … you should sleep. Helga will be taking good care of you. I should … take a bath now, I suppose.” He tried to look as if he was not running away from Heahmund and the awkwardness of the situation as he began his crawl of shame towards the door. “Get well soon, Heahmund.” He shot back over his shoulder as he reached the door and reached up to open it.

“I love you too.” The bishop’s words made him freeze in his tracks, his hand still on the doorknob, not daring to move a muscle or even do as much as breathe. “I heard your conversation with your brother. I do not know what goes on in this mind of yours. As I said before, I would never make the mistake of trying to figure out your thoughts for I can only be proven wrong. What I do know … what I am confident about, however, is that your brother was right. You would have killed me or let me die on the battlefield if you would not feel the same way I do.”

“What if … I just wanted to keep you alive so that I can kill you personally?”

“No…” Heahmund muttered. “You would have done so when we reached England if that were the case.”

“Maybe you just don't know me enough, dear Bishop.”

“Or maybe I do know you better than you think, my Prince.”

**-End of Chapter 15-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!


	16. Epilogue

“We, the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok” - Bjorn’s words were interrupted only by the now customary shouts of _‘all hail King Ragnar’_ \- “came to a decision concerning the fate of you, King Aethelwulf, and your family.”

It was no secret that he took great pleasure in seeing King Aethelwulf on the stand, badly wounded and in shackles, while his family was standing by, kept in line by blades that were being pressed against their necks. It would take only one motion of his oldest brother and King Aethelwulf’s entire family would be killed right in front of him. Perhaps, Ivar thought, that would be a worse fate than what he was facing, seeing his family slaughtered. He would have liked that option better, of course, yet it would not have benefitted him and his brothers in the long run and just would have made things harder for them in the long run. Even if they would have then imprisoned Aethelwulf, the next king would have gone after them for how they dispatched the previous ruler. 

“Our people want you and your whole family dead,” Bjorn continued and the crowd cheered and spat out insults. “However, we came to the conclusion that neither your sons nor your wife had any hand in you betraying our father and breaking the arrangement he had made with your father, the late King Ecbert - just like you broke the arrangement between those two great kings before when you attacked and burned down the settlement that our father established here in England!” 

Again the crowd started screaming profanities, cursing at the royal family. Judith was terrified, there was no question about it and yet she kept her head high, her jaw clenched, her back straight and her hands clasped in front of her while her sons were looking nervously over the crowd. For a moment, Alfred met his gaze but his expression was unreadable. He had changed from the little boy that Ivar had met months ago. He was barely old enough to be holding a sword and still his father had dragged him into battle with him.

“My brother - our brother - suffered greatly and in unspeakable, barbaric ways as a consequence of your betrayal! A young man who had nothing to do with your hatred for our father or the dispute between King Aelle and our father! You allowed an innocent man to be tortured so it would be right to do the same thing to your sons as well! That is, at least, what our people think. We, however, decided that it is not right to let the son pay for the actions of his father. We will treat your sons with more mercy than you have ever shown our brother - a cripple, who was defenseless against you and relied on the trust that our father put into the late king. Only a truly wretched man would betray that trust in such ways.” Bjorn spat on the ground between him and the king. He could see the fear in Aethelwulf’s eyes as he looked over at Ivar. Not for the first time, Ivar wondered how much the man knew.

“Our verdict,” Bjorn then raised his voice again as he turned around to face the crowd of Northmen that had gathered in front of the church. “We sentence you to death, King Aethelwulf. We will make a blood eagle out of you as punishment for the severity of your crimes against our father, against our people, against our brother. The sentence will be carried out by nightfall.” Judith looked ready to faint. Surely, she had heard what his brothers had done to Aelle. “As for your family,” Bjorn turned back around to face the doomed king. “They will be allowed to live.” The man breathed a sigh of relief. “Your son Alfred is to follow you onto the throne. Your older son will join the cleric and become a priest - if not, he too will face being made into a blood eagle. Your wife, Queen Judith, will be allowed to live out the rest of her days under house arrest. She will be allowed to speak with her sons and she will be treated with respect. No harm will come to her but she will refrain from influencing the new king in any way.”

“Prince Alfred,” Ubbe spoke up as he took a step forward and the young prince looked at him immediately as Ubbe shot him a comforting smile. “I understand that this situation is daunting. However, I can assure you that _we_ do keep our word. We will not break the promises we make today. No harm will come to you, your brother, or your mother - not from us, at least. Indeed, we hope that your rule will be prosperous and we offer you an alliance that may be fruitful. Our father offered King Ecbert the same thing when he was allowed to install a settlement in Wessex but your father, no doubt with the blessing of his king, broke that alliance and the trust our people put in him. You now have the chance to rectify their mistakes and show us heathens that a Christian can be trusted to keep his word.”

Alfred swallowed visibly but cast his eyes down onto his feet for a second before he nodded his head. Of course, the young prince had no choice in the matter and surely he knew that as well. This was not an offer, not a question. Alfred knew that if he would deny them, he would face certain death and would doom the rest of his family to the same fate as well. Ivar noticed the frown on King Harald’s face. Just one more person who was not happy with their decision and yet, this was their quest, their decision to make. Still, Ivar harbored no illusions about the fact that they would need to dispose of Harald sooner or later too. His ego and his ambition would undoubtedly become dangerous to them.

As night fell, fires and torches illuminated the same plaza in front of the church. The queen and her sons had a first-row seat to the execution of their husband and father, Bjorn had made sure of that. It was the first time Ivar got the honor to do the blood eagle and although Bjorn had expressed his concern that he would not be able to stand long enough, Ivar was still going through with it, sitting behind the king. This was his revenge and his brothers knew it. 

While no Viking would dare to scream during the procedure out of fear of not going to Valhalla, King Aethelwulf had no qualms like that. He screamed at the top of his lungs as Ivar made the first cut down his back, the point of the heated knife scraping across his spine as he did. Judith looked like she would faint any second now but Aethelwulf’s sons looked determined not to break. It was the least they could do for their father. Aethelred had not yet made his decision but Ivar was sure that he would after witnessing this. The sound as his ribs cracked while Ivar hacked away at them was like lightning shooting through him. The sound of Aethelwulf’s screaming drove waves of pure pleasure through him as blood sprayed his face, hitting his cold skin, drawing a grin out of him. He was sure that Aethelwulf had died before he had succeeded in breaking his ribs completely because as he finally reached into his body and pulled out his lungs to drape them over his shoulders, he no longer screamed or shook.

Judith finally fainted and was barely caught by her older son. The crowd was silent as Ivar got up on shaky legs, supported by Hvitserk’s helping hand. Triumphantly he raised his ax over his head before pointing it at Alfred, a grin on his face, a threat, as he called out: “The King is dead! Long live the King!”

※※※※※※※

“What is your decision concerning the priest?” He felt oddly put on the spot as he sat with his brothers around the altar while they were enjoying their dinner and mead together. Unsurprisingly, both Aethelred and Alfred had agreed to their offered deal, so the whole army was now celebrating their massive success. There was singing in the streets of York, people laughing and dancing in the town square while the five sons of Ragnar Lothbrok celebrated their victory as a unit. Bjorn’s eyes, however, were drilling holes into him at that question. 

He exchanged a quick glance with Ubbe. “He will live,” He then told Bjorn and Hvitserk scoffed.

“Of course, he will,” He said rolling his eyes.

“Is he coming with us or is he staying?” That was all Bjorn wanted to know.

“That is for him to decide.” Now all his brothers were looking at him in surprise. Ivar, however, shrugged in response and resumed eating. “As far as I am concerned, the bishop has paid the price for his crimes against me. He has never lifted his hand against me. The only thing he ever did was pray over me, trying to convert me. But he was also the one person showing me any hint of kindness during my time in captivity. He deserves to decide what he does next. The least I can do is extend the same kindness he showed me to him now.”

“Wow,” Hvitserk huffed. “I would not have thought that I would ever get to see the day when my brother Ivar was behaving like an actual human being.” Hvitserk suddenly jerked as, without question, Ubbe kicked him against the shin. 

“I think it is a good decision.” Sigurd actually came to his defense. “Ivar knows this man far better than we do. If this is his decision, I will support him.”

“I really don't like it that you are so nice to me lately,” Ivar huffed. “It makes me nervous, Brother.”

“Oh, don't worry,” Sigurd replied quickly. “I still think that you are the biggest asshole roaming this earth.”

“Good,” Ivar grinned and was surprised as Sigurd echoed his grin in the same way. Maybe not everything that happened ever since he followed his father to England had been bad.

Heahmund was certainly one of the better things in his life and he did not want to let him go. Still, after the dinner with his brothers, he returned to the man and his sickbed with a heavy heart. Unsurprisingly, Ivar found him awake. 

“You look as if you are carrying the weight of the entire world on your shoulders,” Heahmund greeted him as he crawled through the narrow door. “Was your execution of King Aethelwulf not successful?”

“It was very successful,” Ivar replied as he dragged himself onto the chair next to Heahmund’s bed. The bishop’s words were still whirling around in his head. He had said that he loved Ivar and yet he could not quite believe those words to be true. “Also, the princes and their mother decided to accept our proposition and thus saved all their lives. Well, I guess most people would have done that. Which brings me here … actually.”

“Ah,” Heahmund huffed. “Now you will extend a proposition to me, I assume? Let me have a guess: Either I come with you back to Kattegat or I will be executed at dawn? You know that I am not like most people, Ivar.”

“No … No you are not,” He replied with a fond smile. “Which is why I am not asking you to choose between death and me.”

“You are not?”

“No.” 

“Then what are you proposing?” Heahmund asked, propping himself up on one arm, licking the lips Ivar yearned to lay claim on.

“You have a choice, that much is true,” He then said and decidedly looked onto the ground instead. Otherwise, he might not be able to get through this without threatening death anyway. And could anyone really blame him for threatening others with violence when they threatened to leave him? Who in their right mind would choose him over anyone or anything else? Even his own father had left him, after all, to pursue his goals. “You can choose whether you want to go back to Kattegat with me and build a church there or whether you want to go back to your old life of being the Bishop of Sherborne. You were kind to me when I was your prisoner. I will never forget that, dear Bishop. You cleaned my wounds and fed me after you saw what your soldiers did to me. I want to extend that same kindness to you.”

“You would really let me choose to stay here and return to my old life?”

Ivar was silent for a moment before he looked at Heahmund again. “It is true what Ubbe said. It took me a while to recognize my feelings. I never felt such a thing before. For most of my life I was convinced that I did not have a heart, that I was unable to feel anything for another person. I can admit now that I was terrified after we first laid together. Not because of my feelings for you but because of what my desire for you might say about me, what everyone might think about me.” 

He paused for a second, unsure of whether or not he should continue. He was not exactly a man who made a secret out of his feelings but his heart’s contents and his darkest thoughts had always remained under lock and key. There were very few people in his life who could claim they knew his heart. Even his brothers only knew very little of his desires and feelings.

“I thought that surely what your soldiers did to me had broken me if I suddenly desired to be with another man. I was disgusted in myself but, after a while, I realized that it was not your flesh I desired but you - your sharp mind, your wit, your kindness, being able to have someone on eye level for once in my miserable existence. I treasured you greatly, just the same as I treasured our conversations and when you were gone I missed you more than I ever missed anyone else. And yet, if you want to return to your old life, I will have to accept that. I have realized that I can not force anyone to love me. I wanted Margrethe to love me and to look at me like she looked at my brothers, like she loved my brothers. I did not realize then that she was but a bird in a cage. If I would force you to follow me home, you would soon hate me and that would be worse than letting you go.”

Before he could say anything else, Heahmund suddenly reached out to him. He allowed him to cup his cheek before his hand traveled to the back of Ivar’s neck, pulling him down slightly so he could capture Ivar’s lips with his own. The kiss was softer than every other kiss they had shared so far, no tension lying underneath, no lust vibrating through his core, just warmth, and comfort. It didn't last long before Heahmund had to lie back down again, leaving Ivar breathless and unsure of himself for a second or two.

“Of course, I am coming with you,” Heahmund then replied. “I could never let the opportunity to convert one or two heathens slip through my fingers.”

※※※※※※※

The air inside the room was heavy and warm as Ivar sank back into the mattress next to Heahmund. The young man was visibly exhausted but who was Heahmund to keep Ivar from taking what he wanted? And hadn't it been a sight to behold? Ivar on top of him, his hands grasping for support on his chest as he had willed his hips to move, unwilling to give up as he had taken his cock greedily, riding him like a young stallion.

“You will be the end of me,” Heahmund huffed breathlessly as he turned on his side to face the young Viking next to him. Through the open window, the warm air of this summer day filtered in and brushed over their sweat-covered skin. Soon autumn would reclaim the land and they would not be able to sleep naked in their bed without a fire running in the hearth. “You are insatiable.”

“I am young,” Ivar grinned. “with a lot of sexual prowess.”

“Clearly,” He scoffed and brushed a hand over the freshly shaved side of Ivar’s head and tucked a strand of his hair that had come loose from his ponytail behind his ear. He always loved it when Ivar needed to untangle his braids and would be left with curls for a day before he would get his hair back in order. Living amongst the heathens he had quickly learned that everything concerning the hair was taken way more seriously than in his culture. Even the men took great care of their locks and it never failed to amuse him if he would catch a rare sight of Ubbe’s long mane being tamed by whoever was willing to do it. Mostly that honor came to Hvitserk, sometimes even Ivar was allowed near his brother’s hair, but he was clumsy with his fingers so he usually didn't even braid his own hair. 

“The church is almost finished, is it not?”

“Yes,” Heahmund hummed. “And you are still very much welcome to celebrate the holy communion with me when it is ready.”

Ivar breathed out a laugh, his breath ghosting over Heahmund’s face before he quickly captured his lips in another kiss. “You do not want that,” Ivar then grinned mischievously. “I would only desecrate your precious church with my heathen ways, dear Bishop.”

“How silly of me,” Heahmund chuckled quietly. Looking back on everything that happened it still seemed like a miracle that they were here now, together. At first, the people of Kattegat had not been happy at the prospect of having a Christian church erected at the outskirts of town - especially Floki, Ivar’s guardian, had been furious about it and messed with his supplies until the queen herself had put a stop to this nonsense. The people of Kattegat were still not on board with the idea and so far Heahmund had little hope of being able to convert anyone but at the very least he would have a place of worship for himself. The church was barely big enough for twenty people anyway. It was more like a chapel but it was enough for him and reminded him of where he came from, how he had started out as a young man. He trusted in God. If He wanted him to convert those heathens, he would succeed. For Heahmund, right now, it was enough to be able to practice his worship of God amongst these heathens and it was enough to be here with Ivar. Even if he was a sinner, even if he loved another man, he thought that having a church of his own, being able to be closer to his God, would surely show the almighty that despite being a poor sinner, he was still his loyal servant.

“Do you regret it?” Ivar then asked after a while. 

“What?”

“Falling in love with a devil like me? Making so many compromises just to be here now?”

“Why would I?”

“Because … if you would not have chosen me and stayed in England, you would be the Bishop of Sherborne still, people would flock towards you to listen to your sermon. You would be someone. Here you are just a wandering priest, a missionary who shares a bed with a cripple.”

Heahmund allowed Ivar’s words to sink in for a moment while the tips of his fingers brushed down Ivar’s right flank just to busy his hands. The closeness they shared had become something familiar now, something warm in the pit of his stomach. No one in Kattegat spoke of the nature of their relationship, especially not Ivar’s family but everyone could assume what was going on. Even though Heahmund had a little house nearby, he spent most of his nights here at Ivar’s side. “I do not intend to stay here and play the missionary forever.”

“Oh?”

“No,” Heahmund replied in a low hum. “Because next summer, you and your brothers will go back to England, right? And I will go with you.”

“Is that true?”

“Mhm,” He hummed, brushing his nose against Ivar’s before pressing his forehead against his. “And while Ubbe will start establishing settlements, I reckon that your ambitions lie elsewhere. So, I will follow you into whatever battle you decide to fight. We will conquer whatever land you want to conquer together.”

“Against your own people?”

“I have made my decision, Ivar,” He grinned. “I have always been a better warrior than I ever was a priest.”

“Well … you are not nearly as vexing as that priest that came to Kattegat when I was a child,” He smirked. “So … you mean it? That you will fight by my side?”

“As long as you want me,” Heahmund replied calmly. “As long as God will allow me to stay by your side or until you have enough of me.”

“Even if you could die?”

“I always knew that my fate is not to die as an old man in my bed, Ivar. I crave a warrior’s death just like you. Let us just hope we get a bit more time together first.”

Again Ivar claimed his lips and quickly pulled Heahmund on top of him with strong hands and arms, his legs falling open easily to make room for him. “Don't you dare,” He then breathed against Heahmund’s lips. “to leave me behind before I allow you to.”

“I would never, my prince.”

※※※※※※※

The chapel was not the most beautiful thing Heahmund had ever laid eyes on but he was still proud of his work. He had built it himself with little help from Ivar and sometimes even from his older brothers whenever Ivar had managed to pester them enough to help his ‘dear bishop’. And dear he was to Ivar. He knew that. Otherwise, the young man would have never allowed him to build a church on the land of his gods. 

As Heahmund stood before the chapel he found himself weighed down by nostalgia for a second. He missed his robes, the splendor, and the beauty of the cathedral of his home in Sherborne. This chapel was a simple wooden structure with a wooden cross over the door and on the roof, a wooden altar, and a handful of benches that were never going to be used. And still, as he stood there, he could feel the presence of God. Walking inside it felt different than it had felt as he had been building it. Now that it was complete, now that the cross was over the door, he felt the change in the atmosphere, the serene quietude of the place as he walked up to the altar, only to stop dead in his tracks. A beautiful, ornate golden crucifix stood on the wooden altar and, next to it, a golden chalice and an old, leather-bound book. He had not placed those items himself. In fact, he had never seen them before.

“My father,” A voice caught him off guard. He had been so enamored with the sight of his altar, that he had not even noticed the figure sitting in the front bench at first. “has brought those items back from Lindisfarne - together with the priest. That book … I … Uhm … I can not read it but I think it is a holy book. Bjorn gave it to me. He said it was Athelstan’s book. It is a little … burned.”

Ivar. He never failed to amaze and surprise Heahmund. He knew a side of Ivar that no one else had ever seen of the young prince. He knew him better than most other people, knew his most intimate thoughts and feelings, and still, he managed to surprise him. Heahmund could not help the chuckle that escaped him as he walked up to where Ivar was sitting on the bench, his face turned towards the altar and his hands clasped awkwardly in his lap. 

“Are you here just to bring me those gifts or are you here to inaugurate this chapel?”

“I came to celebrate with you.” Ivar shrugged as if they were talking about the weather. “Which does not mean I believe in your God. But I think … you came with me to Uppsala, whether you were forced or not does not matter. I think that our Gods could coexist and … it would be awfully sad if you would celebrate your mass all alone.”

Heahmund nodded to himself at these words and then walked over to the altar. “Good,” He said after a pause before his fingers brushed over the leather spine of the bible that the monk Athelstan had held so dear to his heart. “Let us begin then.”

**-End of Chapter 16-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the longest time, even while writing this chapter, I was not sure whether or not to give them a happy ending or not. I had two possible endings mapped out, actually - but I chose the happy ending, ultimately because I thought, Ivar went through enough shit already. In the sad ending, everything would have been largely the same but he would have killed Heahmund at the very end.


End file.
